


Thicker'n Blood

by CrossbowDontMiss



Series: This...Thing [2]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Also shameless Rickyl fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Here there be angst, M/M, Merle is an ass, Rick is not amused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossbowDontMiss/pseuds/CrossbowDontMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rick knows it's a mistake, letting Merle into the prison. He knows it can only end badly, put the group at risk, put 'em on edge. He's doing his level best to keep both to a minimum, but it's a losing battle. And that ain't even his biggest concern doing this. It's Daryl." </p><p>Merle-induced Daryl angst, Protective!Rick, Daryl/Rick fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His First Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Spoilers for Home through This Sorrowful Life
> 
> This is my first Walking Dead fic, so I'm still working on getting a feel for the characters. Take it easy on meh.

Rick knows it's a mistake, letting Merle into the prison. He knows it can only end badly, put the group at risk, put 'em on edge. He's doing his level best to keep both to a minimum, but it's a losing battle. And that ain't even his biggest concern doing this.

It's Daryl. The man's made worlds of progress since Atlanta, stepping up to become a valued,  _loved_  member of their group, and he more than lives up now to the trust they've put in him. To the trust  _Rick's_  put in him. And he doesn't want to see him piss that all away for his asshole brother.

There's more to it than that, though. He's not just worried about Daryl's place in the group; he's worried about  _him_. He's seen some serious shit, and tough as nails as Daryl is, it shows. All the scars all over him, the way he flinches away when you make for him, even if it's just to shake his hand….It's gotten better, the flinching, but there are still times when his adrenaline's pumping or his mind's someplace else that Rick'll catch him spooking, and it makes his heart wrench, because he knows why.

Rick's not blind. Never has been. He knew soon as he saw all those scars criss-crossing his front and back that someone had made Daryl's life hell. He just never saw fit to ask; Daryl wasn't the type to share his demons, and Rick had never been much for talking himself.

Only, it's different, now. Lots of things are different, now, and he's not real sure how it started, how  _they_  started, him and Daryl. They just kinda… _did_.

Since then, he's learned. He's seen Daryl through enough rough nights, tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep, seen him through enough long watches with nothing to do but talk, and he's learned. Merle may not have put as many marks on him as his old man did, but he made his share.

That right there's enough reason for Rick to want to see him rot in hell, or at least leave the son of a bitch standing out with all those walkers. Shame that hadn't been an option. Daryl had shown up just in the nick of time today; if it wasn't for him, who knew how many of them would still be alive. God only knew Rick wouldn't. No, the team needed him to stay, and Rick…Rick couldn't bear to let him go again. If that meant taking Merle in, well then he reckoned they'd just have to take the bad with the good.

'Sides, at least this way he can look out for him. He never needed it before, with the zombies. Daryl could take care of himself – hell, Daryl took care of all of them, in one way or another – and Rick just had to let him. But seeing him with his brother again, seeing the way he won't meet anyone's eyes as they clean up after the attack, it's a different ball game. He watches him, and there's this almost  _visceral_  need to protect what's his making his jaw clench and his gut churn.

'Course, it gets hard later on in the night to tell how much of that's protectiveness and how much of that's the overwhelming urge to knock that son of a bitch Merle flat on his ass. He deserves it. In the couple hours since they got in, Merle's shot off his mouth enough to get Maggie, Glen, and Beth all three to retreat to their cells. He's tried his level best to ignore him, for Daryl's sake, but when he starts on harassing Carol, askin' about Ed and swearing up a storm with Carl and Judith in the room, he's got to draw the line.

When Merle gets up to go relieve himself – and he's paraphrasing, 'cause there's no need for the sort of language and detail Merle uses – Rick stands, Judith cradled in the crook of his arm. "You mind?" he asks Carol. He's not thinking this is gonna be the sort of conversation a man wants to have with a baby in his arms. He figures there's a solid chance someone's throwing punches, and he can't rightly say who; he just knows it's best the others are kept out of it.

Carol looks up at him, and her eyebrows are furrowed, but she manages a smile. "Of course." And she takes Judith all careful, like she's made of glass, and even though she fusses a little bit, his little girl settles right back down. She knows who her family is. If he wasn't so fired up, he'd probably smile, too, but instead he just nods. He's got some business to see to before things start getting out of hand.

He starts in the direction he saw Merle take, figuring it'd be best to do this away from the others. He barely makes it more than a few steps, though, before he sees Daryl coming down the stairs. He's been sitting up there the whole time since they got back, hardly said a word, but he's coming down now, and Rick can see the decision in his eyes.

He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. His looks says enough.  _I got this._

"You sure?" Truth be told, Rick doesn't much like the idea of it.

"He's my brother."

Rick hates how guilty he looks when he says it. Like it's some sort of apology. Like  _he_  needs to apologize for his brother being a dick. And as much as Rick wants to tell him it ain't like that, that he's not responsible for Merle just 'cause their blood, he doesn't. It'd just be a waste of breath, and Daryl doesn't need another weight on his shoulders, another voice tellin' him what to do.

So, instead, he just grits his teeth and nods, and Daryl nods back, a little jerkily, before walking off same way his brother did. Rick watches him go, swallowing back the urge to go after him, to at least stand by and make sure nothing goes south. Daryl'll do what he's got to do; he always has. Rick trusts him.

He just wishes like hell he could help him.


	2. One Down

It's been fifteen minutes, and Rick's getting antsy. He don't know Merle that well, but he knows Daryl's not exactly the chatty type. And they've had two whole days together to catch up; far as he can figure it, there's no reason the two of them ought to be taking so long.

He's not aware he's pacing until Carol's polite cough makes him stop. Daryl must be rubbing off on him, he thinks. He's always been a pacer. Bless his heart, the man can't seem to hold still more than a second or two to save his wretched soul, not even when he's sleeping.

Rick wonders briefly if that's why it's taking so long: 'cause trying to talk to Daryl when he's all worked up's kind of like trying to hit a moving target.

Come the twenty-minute mark, though, Rick don't much care why it's taking so long.

"I'm gonna go see what's taking so long," he tells Carol.

She purses her lips, rocking a sleeping Judith absently. She doesn't say anything, but Rick can tell she's thinking plenty.

"What?"

"Nothing," Carol says, shaking her head. "It's just…he's not good for him, Rick. Merle? He's gonna drag him down if he stays."

Rick scowls. "Don't you think I know that?" His gut's been in knots about it this whole damn time. "I just don't see us having a whole hell of a lot of other options. You saw what happened last time we bade him choose 'tween his brother and us. We can't afford to lose him again. Not now."

"But he came back," Carol says.

"He came back with Merle!" It comes out harsh – harsher than Rick really means it to, and he takes a second to rein himself back in. This mess ain't on Carol; it's not her fault. He takes a breath, lets it out in a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair. And when he speaks again, his voice measured and tense. "You really think Merle should go, then you go right on and you tell Daryl yourself. Because I won't. I  _can't_  ask him to do that again." He can't put that on him, not with everything else that's going on.

Apparently, Carol can't either. Her shoulders sag, and her face falls to a sad, tired frown that makes her look older than she is. He reckons there's one just about like it on his face.

"I'll keep my eye on him," he says after a long moment. "It ain't much, but it'll have to do." And that kills him, knowing he's so fucking helpless to look after his own, but it's like he said: it'll have to do.

That being said, he's sure as hell going to do it right, starting now. "Be right back," he says, and then he starts off in the direction of the Dixon brothers. He figures they're probably in the next cell block over. Daryl knows not to go much further'n that, but they're far enough gone their voices aren't carrying through.

He's just barely made it a few steps that direction though before he hears something that makes him stop. Footsteps, loud and just shy of quick enough to be a run, and Rick doesn't have to call out to know whose they are. They've been together long enough now, even just in this prison, he's learned the sounds his people make. And even though Daryl doesn't make a habit 'a stomping around the place, he knows those footfalls almost as well as he knows his own.

Sure enough, it's not but a second or two later that Daryl comes walking out of the other cell block through the common area. He's got his head bowed, and Rick can read from the set of his shoulders – not to mention the way those boots of his are clomping on the concrete – that he's not happy.

It doesn't take a head shrinker to know what for.

"Merle." The name slips off his tongue like a curse. To him, it is one.  _Merle's_  a curse; he's a weight on his brother that Daryl doesn't need, and he ain't even sorry about it.

"—away from me, little brother. We ain't done talking yet!" Merle's voice calls, and soon he appears from the same door Daryl did. He's got one of those grins on his face that Rick tends to associate with tripped-out druggies and sociopaths. He's not real sure he's decided which one of those Merle is just yet.

Doesn't get much time to think on it, either. Daryl's just passing him, and he catches him with a hand on his chest. He's planning to ask him what the hell happened, what Merle's gone and done this time – and damned if it ain't getting harder and harder to remind himself why he's letting this son of a bitch stay on at the prison – but Daryl kills his questions on his tongue with a look.

"I took care of it," he says, and then he shrugs away from Rick's touch like he's burned him.

That hurts. Daryl pulling away from him like that,  _walking_  away from him…he tries not to take it personal, but he can only do so much, and it still stings.

 _He's gonna drag him down._  Carol's words echo in his head, and much as he'd like to ignore them, they're suddenly ringing a lot truer. This isn't gonna be easy. But then, he reckons nothing in this life worth doing ever is. Especially not now.

He lets Daryl go for the time being. He'll let him cool off a little while, then he'll go look after him. In the meantime, he's got another Dixon to see to, and he's not quite so concerned about this one's feelings.

"Merle!" This time, it's like a gunshot. It isn't loud as one – there's a baby in this room and walkers in the woods, and he's not much inclined to aggravate either – but it's sharp, and it echoes off the walls of the common area.

Merle stops a few feet in front of Rick. He's got a look in his eyes that's a little bit challenging and a little bit snide, and Rick knows, he  _knows_  he ain't gonna make this easy. And there's a part of Rick that's just fine with that, because he's got a little bit of steam needs letting off, and Merle's just as good a place as any to aim it.

Of course, looking at him, Rick sees that he's not the only one seemed to think so. Merle's nose is bleeding fresh, and he's not going to lie; he feels a swell of satisfaction knowing that it had to be Daryl that popped him. Probably a long time coming.

Merle must notice where he's looking, because he sniffs and spits a wad of blood on the floor. "Seems  _Darleena's_  still got a little fight left in her after all," he says. It ain't a backhanded compliment; Merle can't even give Daryl that. It's an insult, plan and simple, and Rick has half a mind to give him a couple shiners to match that bloody nose of his. "No thanks to you sons 'a bitches."

"Just what's that supposed to mean?" He's doing his God's honest best not to snarl, not to lose his temper. He won't give Merle the satisfaction.

Merle's got no such predilections. His lip curls around crooked teeth, and he steps right up in Rick's face, staring down his swelled-up nose at Rick like he's the scum of the earth in the flesh. "You tell me, Officer Friendly," he says. "He's scrawnier'n a knobby-kneed little girl. So, how's it work? You feed my brother scraps offa your plates, or you make him scrounge in the trash like a real stray?"

For the briefest second, Rick thinks he might hear something sounds a little like concern in Merle's voice, but he loses it somewhere under all the mockery and disgust and the blood pounding in his own ears. He knows Daryl's slimmed up a bit since Atlanta; they all have. Not enough food to go around and too much running and moving, and that little bit of padding he had back when they first met's gone. Daryl's all lean, corded muscle, now, and hard edges and cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and it might be there's a part of Rick that feels guilty every time he sees his ribs standing out when he breathes or his shoulderblades jutting when he aims his crossbow, but he knows that's just part of life now, and he moves on.

But implying it's 'cause he's like some sort of dog they don't feed…Rick's not gonna stand for that.

"Now you listen here, you bitter, racist, hillbilly  _bastard_ ," Rick says through gritted teeth, "Daryl's one of us, now. And unlike you, we take care of our own." He steps in closer, 'til he can see the pockmarks on his face and smell the rotten stink of his breath, and he stares him down like he could kill him with his eyes. "If you do  _anything_  to jeopardize him or this group in any way, I will personally put you down."

Merle just grins, though. "You really think Daryl'd let you put me down? You got another thing coming." He turns his head and spits another wad of blood, this time on Rick's boot, then looks right back up at him. "I'm his brother, and there ain't nothing thicker'n blood."

"I guess we'll just see about that, won't we?" Rick says.

"I guess we will." And there's just something about that cock-sure look on his face, like he thinks he's got his brother all figured out and there ain't no way he could be wrong…Rick knows if this goes on any longer, he's gonna start throwing punches. So instead, he grabs him by his wrist – the one he's still got – and he jerks him around. He's none too gentle about shoving him up the stairs of the cell block, and if he pushes him into one of the cells a little harder than he needs to, well then that's just too bad.

"Hey, now," Merle says once he's gotten his feet back under him from stumbling. "That there's police brutality."

Rick just slams the cell door shut and locks it. "File a complaint." And then he turns, because even if he's agreed to let Merle stay, he ain't leaving him out to wander. He can't risk the group's safety like that.

And, begrudgingly, he admits it's probably wise not to let the others get at him in the night, either. He knows there're a few scores to settle, and plenty of bad blood. It's just best this way.

"Hey, Officer Friendly," Merle hollers after him as he walks away. Rick doesn't look back, not that that seems to deter Merle any. "He left you for me once. You best remember that."

"And you best get some sleep," Rick calls back. "We start early 'round here."

In the meanwhile, he's got another Dixon needs seeing to.


	3. To Each Their Own

He grabs a blanket on the way up to the roof that Rick knows is Daryl's favorite hiding spot. Some of them retreat to their cells, some take comfort being around the others; Daryl slips up to the roof and takes turns watching the walkers and staring up at the sky.

To each their own.

It's closing in on fall, now. The days are still alright when the sun's out, but the nights are getting cool. A gust of wind greets Rick when he opens the door out onto the roof, and he's suddenly glad for the blanket he's got folded up under his arm.

Daryl's still on his feet when Rick joins him out on the roof. He's prowling the edge, corner to corner, back and forth. Leave it to Daryl to look trapped even out in the open air.

"You know, Michonne's on watch tonight," Rick says, more to break the silence than anything. Daryl doesn't stop, doesn't even act like he hears him, but Rick knows he does, and that's a start. He's in no hurry.

He steps a little farther out onto the roof, easing the door closed behind him. He knows the things can be loud as all get out if they slam, and he doesn't want to scare anybody inside.

"So what've you been up to?" The question's so damn normal, it's almost funny. But this is the routine they've fallen into: start with small talk, and eventually – maybe – build up to the important stuff, like say why Daryl went storming off or why, for that matter, he showed up with his shirt all ripped to shreds.

Or, hell, why he showed up at all.

"Saved a lady," Daryl says finally. His voice sounds a little bit raw, a little bit distant, but Rick won't venture a guess as to why. Years as a cop taught him better than to assume. Gut feelings're one thing, but assumptions are a good way to balls things up. And they've come too far for that.

"Did you, now?" he says instead.

Daryl starts to glance over at him, but seems to think better of it, and just nods his head. "Her and her baby both. Group she was with ran into a herd on the bridge. Heard the kid crying all the way from the river, figured we could help 'em out. 'Cept Merle said…." But then he trails off, like he doesn't care to go any further, and his face pinches then falls. He stops his pacing long enough to kick a gravel over the edge with the gnawed-on toe of his boot.

Rick reckons this is as good a place as any to start getting at that 'important stuff' he was talking about. "What'd Merle say?" Truth be told, he's not rightly sure he wants to know. It's already an uphill battle not to march down there, drag that redneck jackass outta that cell by his balls, and beat a damn conscience into him. But clearly, this is eating Daryl, and if he needs to get it off his chest, well then Rick reckons he can rein in his temper and listen.

Daryl doesn't answer immediately, though. He takes a few more paces along the edge of the roof, stops, scrubs his hands over his dirt-smeared face, and finally mutters something Rick can't quite make out.

"Come again?"

"I said," Daryl starts to snap, but then it's like someone pokes a hole in him, and he deflates. His shoulders slump and his head hangs. "Merle said he wasn't wasting his bullets on 'em." He scowls, then, and his pacing picks up again. Rick's half convinced he's gonna wear a ditch in the damn roof before the night's out. "We could hear the damn baby crying, for Christ's sake. Coons my ass; he knew, and he wasn't gonna do shit. If I hadn't 'a been there—" he kicks the lip of the roof, and it must be harder than he'd figured, because he jerks back. "Shit!"

Rick figures that's his cue to step in, before Daryl goes and breaks something important.

Like the roof.

He closes the remaining few yards between them in a few steps, unfolding the blanket as he does. And this time, when Daryl turns around to start another lap, Rick's waiting for him. He catches him in the thick fleece blanket, pulling it around his lithe shoulders before he grabs him by the upper arms and holds him there.

"Hey, now," he says when Daryl tries shaking him loose. It's halfhearted at best, though, mostly just nervous energy. He's like a skittish colt, Daryl is, all restless and uneasy. He just needs someone to steady him. "Alright," he says. "Alright."

And slowly, surely, Daryl starts to settle down. He doesn't stop moving completely, but then, Rick'd be worried if he did, and instead just fidgets with the frayed edge of the blanket around his shoulders.

"Merle's an asshole," he mutters. Rick's sorely tempted to agree with him, too, but something tells him this ain't the time, so he bites his tongue. "But he's my brother. He didn't think we had any business helpin' those folks on the bridge, but he came anyhow 'cause I went. I know…shit, man, I know there's gotta be  _somethin'_  in there."

"You really believe that?" Rick asks. "Or you just sayin' so 'cause he's your brother?" He knows it's not a question Daryl wants to hear, but it's one Rick's gotta ask. He's got to know why Daryl keeps holding on to a bad thing, even when it's plain he's hurting for it.

He is, too. Hurting, he means. Rick can see it in his eyes. That's the look of a man desperate for something he's not sure he'll ever have. Rick knows it too well; he's seen it more than a few times staring back at him in the mirror.

"I got to," Daryl says. It's barely louder than a whisper, and Rick hates the way he can't seem to bring himself to look him in the eyes. "I got to believe it. Merle's the only family I got left. I got to believe there's somethin' in him worth standin' by. Else…."

"Else, what?" Rick presses.

Daryl frowns. It's a miserable sort of face he's making, too, that makes Rick want to gather him up and hold him, to hell with what he's trying to accomplish.

But he doesn't, because this…this needs doing. Let the wounds air out first; there'll be time for the rest later.

"Else next time you ask me, I'll be the one's leaving him. And I…I already done that once. Ain't never forgiven myself, neither." Daryl's voice wavers there towards the end, and when at long last he finally does raise his eyes, there's something awful in them. Something painful. Pleading. "Don't ask me, Rick. Just please…don't ask me."

Rick's heart breaks a little at that and the wetness he sees shining in those bright blue eyes. And before the first tear can slip through, he slides a hand around to the back of his head and pulls him forward. Daryl goes without a fight, and he presses a chaste kiss first to his lips, then to his head, and then pulls him in close.

They've done this a few times, but it never fails to amaze him how easy it is. Daryl's head fits right in the crook of his shoulder; Rick's hand fits perfect over the nape of his neck. And everything else meshes together like it was never meant to be separated in the first place.

"I won't," he tells him, and he blinks quickly a few times over Daryl's shoulder at the near-full moon. His voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears, but it ain't lacking for conviction. "I never shoulda asked that 'a you in the first place; I won't do it again. You have my word, alright?"

It takes him a long moment – Rick'll pretend for both their sakes that he doesn't notice the way the body in his arms's shaking or the moisture seeping through the shoulder of his shirt – but finally, Daryl nods.

Only then does Rick let up on him, and then only far enough to see his face. He pretends to cough so he's got a reason to turn his head while Daryl drags his hand across his eyes, and he waits for the telltale casual sniff to look again.

"You alright?" he asks after a second, only to realize that's dangerously close to talking about feelings. That's still a little bit beyond them just now, at least directly. "I just remember Merle beat you pretty bad the other night in Woodbury. Never did get a chance to get a look at you."

Even as he speaks, he's reaching for the hem of Daryl's shirt, and it's a sure sign of just how much progress they've made that Daryl lets him lift it up without so much as a flinch. He eases it up, bunching it under his arms and using what like the moon provides to assess the damage.

"I'm fine," Daryl mutters.

But Rick takes one look at his belly and his chest, and he frowns. "You're black and blue." And green, and just a little bit yellow, but he thinks he's made his point.

Daryl shifts his weight from foot to foot; he's getting antsy again. "Ain't nothing but a couple bruises," he says. "Barely even feel it."

"Bullshit," Rick says, not harshly, but firmly. He knows how Daryl moves; everything's fluid, efficient. He's been carrying himself stiff all night, though, and Rick's no genius, but he can put two and two together as well as the next guy. He'd bet good money Daryl's sore as shit; he's just not in the habit of copping to it. "You should let Hershel take a look at you."

He's expecting to have to push the subject. Daryl always kicks up a fuss about letting Hershel patch him up. Hell, he nearly had to sit on him a couple months ago when he sliced his leg kicking out a car window.

To Rick's surprise, though, Daryl laughs. Really, honest-to-goodness laughs, and it's this soft, breathy, light sorta sound that reminds Rick a little bit of leafs rustling in a nice warm breeze.

He smiles despite himself. "What?" he says. "I say something funny?"

Daryl's laughter subsides, but he's still wearing a crooked grin on his face as he answers, "You got a whole herd of walkers in your front yard, a nutcase with a small army banging on your door," he shakes his head, "and you're sitting here frettin' over a couple 'a bruises that ain't even that bad." Another round of chuckles bubble up from whatever well he's been hiding 'em in, and his eyes crinkle up just so that Rick can't even muster up a proper indignation.

Although, he and Daryl are gonna have words later, maybe with Hershel present, about what does and does not constitute 'that bad.'

That's for another time, though. Right now, Rick just moves his hand up from Daryl's hip to rest lightly over one of the bigger bruises on his ribs and looks him straight in the eye. "We're family, too," he says, and when Daryl opens his mouth, before he can get a word out, Rick brings their heads together gently, brows touching, noses brushing, and tells him, "Some things are thicker than blood."


	4. Snake in the Nest

He gets the closest thing to a decent night's sleep he's had in weeks that night. Even if those bunks weren't made for two full-grown men, sidled up close enough, they don't take up much room. It's worth the tight fit to fall asleep with a warm, familiar body lying next to him, wrapped up in his arms.

The next morning's a different story. 'Tween Hershel and Car, the world seems to see fit to give him a few good kicks to the teeth before the sun's even done rising, and then there's the walkers in the field and the Governor's people in the tree line. Daryl was right last night; they ain't worries to be taken lightly.

They're manageable, though. Shit, he can't stop the world turning, can't make the walkers stop coming or people stop being sick fucks. But tactics, keeping his people alive – that's something he can do. And in this world, a man learns to do what he can.

So, that's what he does.

"Take watch," he tells Maggie as he passes her cell. She's already slinging her rifle over her shoulder, and she's got this hard look in her eyes that Rick tells himself he can't do nothing about. They gotta survive, first. Everything else can wait. It'll have to. "Eyes open, head down." And he keeps going.

He just pokes his head in Glen's cell, just long enough to prop a rifle inside the door, before he moves on towards the end of the cell block where the others are waiting. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Daryl coming down the stairs to join 'em.

"Field's filled with walkers. I didn't see any snipers out there, but we'll keep Maggie on watch." He reckons she's got a level enough head to do it, but mostly he just wants to put distance 'tween her and Merle.

He meets Daryl at the bottom of the stairs, and they both walk up to circle up with the others.

"I'll get up in the guard tower," Daryl says. "Take out half them walkers, give these guys a chance to fix the fence." Rick knows he could, too. It's easy to forget it sometimes, but Daryl's deadly.

"Or use some of the cars to put the bus in place." Speaking of deadly. Michonne's standing in the corner, all stone cold and dead level. She's a different kinda dangerous than Rick's used to with Daryl, but that don't make her any less so.

But Hershel's over there shaking his head. "We can't access the field without burning through our bullets."

"So we're trapped in here," Glen says. He's come out of his cell and he's standing between Rick and Daryl. His shiner's gone down, but his temper hasn't. Right now, Rick reckons he's just about as volatile as Maggie. "There's barely any food or ammo."

Daryl takes his hand away from his mouth where he's been chewing on a nail and rocks on his feet. "Been here before. We'll be alright."

"That's when it was just us!" Glen snaps. "Before there was a snake in the nest."

And there it is. Rick'd seen it coming before Glen even finished getting the words out, but there was nothing he could do but watch. There's nothing he can do now, either, as Daryl raises his eyes up from his boots and rounds on Glen.

"Man, we gonna go through this again? Look, Merle's stayin' here. He's with us, now. Get used to it—"

"Hey." Rick tries to step in, to keep this from escalating any, but Daryl jerks away from him, turning those accusatory eyes right 'round on Rick.

"All y'all," he says, and then he takes off up the stairs two at a time. He'll be pacing up there for a while, yet, Rick reckons, and he hates that, because this was supposed to be settled last night.

He doesn't get long to linger on it, though, because Glen's right up in his face. "Seriously, Rick," he hisses, "I don't think Merle living here is really gonna fly."

"I can't kick him out," Rick whispers back just as strong. Because he can't. He can't go back on what he told Daryl last night, and he can't force Daryl to make that choice again. It's not right, and it's not fair. He's done so much for their group, and he just wishes Glen would take a second to think before he goes running his mouth.

They ain't doing this for Merle; they're doing it for Daryl.

"I wouldn't ask you to live with Shane after he tried to kill you!"

Rick just kind of stares at him, then, because what the hell's he supposed to say to that? That's a different story. A different life from the one they're livin' now, and besides that, it's a low blow. Glen knows that. This situation really has made desperate men of them.

He's grateful when Hershel cuts in. "Merle has military experience," the man says, his voice the picture of calm. They need that. "He may be erratic, but don't underestimate his loyalty to his brother."

"What if we solve both problems at once? Deliver Merle to the Governor – bargaining chip. Give him his traitor, maybe declare a truce."

Rick grits his teeth. There's a part of him that'd like nothing more than to turn that son of a bitch over. He hates what he did to Glen, and he fucking  _despises_  what he's  _still_  doing to Daryl. He's a blight. A wedge, driving them all apart at a time when they need to stand together more than anything.

But giving into that would mean not only breaking a promise, but losing one of their group. Because even if Daryl really would stay with them if they sent Merle away, he'd never forgive them. Never. And they  _need_  Daryl.

He'd look to Hershel for backup – he's usually the voice of reason – but it seems he and Michonne both have wandered off. It's just him and Glen, so he reckons he'll just have to clear the air himself.

"I told you, Glen," he says slowly, tone steely, "Merle stays."

"But that creep—"

Rick cuts him off. "This ain't about him. It's about Daryl. It's about showing him that we've got his back."

"Yeah? And what about  _our_  backs, Rick? It's bad enough we have to watch them out there, but in here, too? He's not one of us!"

"But Daryl is," Rick grinds out. He glances up and sees Daryl still pacing the second floor landing, pretending not to listen. But he knows there's only so much pretending he can do, so he tries to keep his voice down. "He watches our backs. He keeps us safe."

"Until he ditches us again!" Glen shouts.

Rick winces, because Glen's voice is loud as hell, and there's no way on God's green earth Daryl didn't hear that. Another glance upwards confirms it. Daryl's stopped, and he's leaning forward against the bars of the cell like he's trying to fade through 'em.

Glen seems to notice, too, just a bit too late, because he lets out a sigh and rubs his hand over his mouth. When he speaks again, it's barely louder than a whisper. "He left us once, Rick," he says. It's a startling echo of Merle's words last night.

_He left you for me once._

"And he came back," Rick says. And he thinks Carol was right: that that's what's important. "He came back, and he saved my life. Our lives. We coulda been overrun if it weren't for him. We owe him."

"But Merle—"

"Could die in a hole somewhere, and I wouldn't shed a single solitary tear." Hell, he'd probably be the first to dance on his grave. If he knew how to dance. "But he's Daryl's kin, and after everything's done for this group since we set off, I reckon the least we can do is not throw his brother to the damn wolves."

Glen's nose wrinkles and his lip curls. "I don't trust him," he says after a short while.

"I ain't askin' you to."  _Rick_  sure as hell doesn't. "Just to tolerate him, 'least until we can figure out something else to do with him. Can you do that for me?"

Glen doesn't answer.

"Glen," Rick presses. " _Can you do that for me_?"

And finally, Glen takes a deep breath. "I can try," he says. He don't look happy about it, but Rick can't hold that against him. He's not about to push his luck, either. "But if that bastard tries anything…."

"Then you do what you gotta do," Rick tells him. "I'll do the same. But for what it's worth, I think Hershel's right: in some messed-up, dysfunctional way, I think Merle's loyal to his brother. I don't think he'd do anything to put him in danger."

God only knows the reverse is true.

"We'll figure it out," he says, clapping Glen on the shoulder. It's not much comfort, but it's the best he can do for the time being.

Mercifully, Glen seems to accept that, at least for now, because with one last sour look in the direction of Merle's cell, he turns and walks off.

Soon as he's gone, Rick leans back against the staircase and lets out a breath that's been burning in his chest since this conversation started. It comes out in a sigh, and he drops his head into his hands.

"Goddammit." He slides his hand down his face, covering his mouth, and tries to remember what breathing feels like without this vise he's got round his chest.

A hand lands on his shoulder not but a moment later, and he starts, jerking his head up out of his hands. It's Carol, looking at him with worried eyes and a small, sympathetic smile. "You alright?" she asks.

"Yeah," he lies, and he nods his head even though he doesn't think he's fooling anybody. "Yeah, I'm alright." Except he's not, but then, none of them are. He knows Carol knows that.

"There anything I can do?"

Actually, there is. "Check on Daryl for me? I need to make sure his head's still in the right place." That's a lie, too. If there's one thing he can rely on in this crazy ass world, it's knowing he can rely on Daryl. Even when the man's done and gone, he still keeps their asses out of the fire. No, he ain't worried about that.

"You're worried about him." It ain't a question. Carol's got this knowing smile on her face, now. And even though he and Daryl haven't exactly been outright with their…whatever it is they got going, he gets the inkling she might know anyhow. "Of course. I'll go talk to him."

"Thank you."

Carol waves him off. "It's no trouble."

"No, Carol. I mean it." He stands and takes her hand off his shoulder, holding it in both of his own. "Thank you."

This time, Carol takes his gratitude properly. She pats his hand and leans up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "We trust you, you know. It may not seem like it sometimes, but we know you're doing the best you can for us."

Rick tries to muster a grateful smile, but he thinks it just comes out looking grim. "Let's just hope that's enough."

Carol doesn't say anything to that, just smiles a little brighter and brushes her thumb affectionately over where her lips just touched. And then she's gone, and Rick's left standing there on his own again.

Except…this time, he doesn't feel quite so alone.


	5. Option B

Andrea's an unwanted surprise.

It ain't that he's not happy to see her. He's glad she made it out; he really is. But she brought with her news he didn't want to hear about the Governor and Woodbury, and it kills him knowing they've been backed into a corner.

He's got mixed feelings about sending her off back to Woodbury. On the one hand, he's not sure he wants her around here. Too much time's passed; too much has changed. He knows she was one of them, but he can see it in his people's faces: they all know she isn't anymore. She knows it, too. Maybe that could change, and truth be told, he's kind of hoping she's thinking the same. He's hoping, maybe foolishly, that she'll see them remember what they were to her once – her  _family_  – and want to help them.

On the other hand, there's risks in sending her back. She's seen their layout, as much of it as they've been willing to show, and she could just as easy as breathing tell the Governor about it. He likes to think she wouldn't, but he's learned hope's a fickle thing in this world. And even though she's been gone a while, even though she's in with the other team, he's got some reservations about sending her out on her own to Woodbury, too. Enough that he sends her with a gun and a car.

Tensions are high that night. Everyone's quiet around the common area. Rick's using the chance to get some long-overdue time with his daughter. He's fed her, changed her, and as he walks down the stairs, he's got her bundled up and held in the crook of his arm. She's a sound sleeper – Carl was colicky when he was little, so an easy baby's kind of a novel thing for him – and she barely stirs more than a murmur as he comes down the stairs to join them.

It's a relief when Beth takes it upon herself to break the silence. He thinks they've all gotten a little reliant on her singing at night, and there's a part of him that prays she never runs out of songs to sing. He only barely recognizes this one. It's newer than what he tended to listen to; he's a little old school that way. But it's got a nice melody to it, and Beth's got a pretty voice that echoes off the walls and fills the prison like a soft light.

Judith coos in her sleep, and Rick's about to smile when movement by the cell block door draws his attention. Merle comes back in, looking at him over the top of Beth's head, and Rick can't quite read the look. He doesn't really try.

Instead, he turns, heads over to where Daryl and Hershel are leaning against the wall. He hasn't really had a chance to talk to Daryl since that morning, so he's not real sure where his head's at. He keeps Hershel between them, and doesn't say anything right off.

"Some reunion, huh?" Daryl says after a minute, and Rick raises his eyes from Judith to see Daryl looking at him. Their eyes meet for a second, as if to say  _we okay?_ , and then they both drop their eyes back to Judith. She seems to be the star of attention; she's got Hershel's gaze, too.

Rick picks up the conversation. He's got something he needs to talk to him about, but they'll get to it. "She's in a jam."

"We all are," Hershel says quietly. Beth's voice echoes over all of theirs; they don't outright discuss it, but Rick thinks they all mean to keep it that way. No reason to worry the others. They got enough on their minds. "Andrea's persuasive, but this fella's armed to the teeth, bent on destruction."

"So what d'you wanna do?" Daryl asks, and Rick knows it's aimed at him. And that just kind of blows his mind sometimes, because Daryl's not the type to take orders from anybody, and yet here they are. And knowing that, after everything that's gone down, that someone like Daryl's still got faith in him…it gives him the strength to do what needs doing.

"Match it." It's all they can do. A man gives an inch with a bona-fide lunatic like the Governor, he'll take a mile and then some. "I'm goin' on a run."

And dammit, Daryl doesn't even hesitate. "We'll head out to tomorrow."

Rick feels all the worse for it. Loyalty like that ain't something to take lightly, and he feels like he keeps walking all over it. "No, you stay here." Then he steels himself for a conversation like the one this morning and says, "Keep an eye on your brother."

Steeled or not, his gut still clenches when Daryl turns away. He hates to keep bringing it up, to keep beating Daryl over the head with it, but he doesn't have a choice. He's got to hold firm, keep his people safe. Including Daryl.

When Daryl turns back and cuts his eyes over at him, he holds firm. "I'm glad you're back. Really." He wants Daryl to know that, to understand that. "But if he causes a problem, it's on you."

For a second, Daryl's quiet, and Beth's voice flows in to fill the ebb of their conversation. But then, with his lips pressed in a firm line, Daryl nods. "I got 'im."

That's a bullet dodged, Rick thinks. They can move on. "I'll take Michonne."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Daryl asks.

"I'll find out." He glances down. Judith's nursing her little thumb, her eyes moving behind closed lids, and Rick can't help wondering what she's dreaming about. He hopes it's peaceful; he's done the best he can to keep her shielded from all the shit that's out there. They all have. He just wishes he could do the same for both his children. The world's not like that, though. "And Carl. He's ready. You hold it down here."

He looks back up, and his and Daryl's eyes automatically slot together. "Got it," Daryl says. Rick can hear the promise in it, and he knows he doesn't have to worry. Not about that, at least. Daryl's already shown he'd move mountains through hell to keep their people safe. Rick trusts that.

He hopes Daryl knows they'd do the same for him.

Hershel takes his leave of 'em not long after that. His crutches click along the floor as he moves to sit down next to his daughter by the Coleman lamp. The sounds of soft conversation fill the cell block soon after: Hershel, Beth, and Carol all three getting talking, sharing stories that Rick listens to only well enough to know they're happy.

Rick doesn't really mean to do it, but before he realizes it, he's moved to fill in the spot Hershel just left, leaning back against the door of the cell. There isn't but an inch or two between him and Daryl. Maybe it's stupid, but that inch feels like a damn mile. He wants to close it, but he's not sure where they stand right now. Daryl's going along with him; he's got his back. But that's one thing; this is another.

He no sooner gets to thinking about it, though, than Daryl moves. It's not much, just that one damn inch, but their shoulders are suddenly touching. Rick's lungs suddenly remember how to work right again, because even if everything else is going to hell, at least this is somehow still holding on alright.

If Daryl notices, he doesn't show it. He acts like it's nothing, sharing space like this – even though Rick knows him, and he knows that there was a time, that there still  _are_  times, when it is – and even leans in a little closer, turning his shoulder in so that he can move the blanket a little away from Judith's face. She's awake, now, her little eyes bleary and unfocused, but she doesn't start fussing. She just stares up at Daryl, and when she takes her thumb out of her mouth and wraps one of her tiny hands around his finger, he grins like he's the proud papa.

Rick just watches, and there's this warmth in his chest as he does, because in this moment, right here, right now, he can forget about everything he's lost and everything he stands to lose, and he can remember what he  _has_. Standing here, his baby girl and the man he owes her life – and his own, and so,  _so_  much more – he's reminded of the reasons he does what he does. He loves them both more than he could ever put to words.

He smiles. "You know," he whispers, "if I didn't know better, I'd say she likes you more than me."

Daryl turns to glance at him with a smile of his own, a little bit crooked, but a little bit of alright, too. "Nah," he says, then turns those blue eyes back to Judith like they're meant to be there, and Rick can't even bring himself to mind, "she just knows a kindred spirit's all."

Rick chuckles. It feels good to do it again. "Lil' Asskicker and Big Asskicker?"

"Somethin' like that."

"You want her?" he asks, but Daryl shakes his head. He doesn't think he means to, but he rolls his shoulder. Rick knows the gesture. "Sore?" He's hoping that's all it is. If it's leftover from that beating he got in Woodbury, Rick's thinking it'll be a little hard to convince himself that beating Merle bloody's a bad idea.

"I'm fine."

It's not much comfort; Rick gets the feeling he'd say that if he was dying. He hopes he never finds out, though. "Stubborn hick," he mutters, shaking his head, but he's still smiling. "Tell you what, looks like they got things down here. I'll put Judith down, and we'll see if we can't do something about that shoulder."

Daryl doesn't argue, but then, Rick's not really expecting him to. No warm-blooded man turns down a shoulder rub, not even Daryl. He does glance back, though, and Rick follows his gaze over to where Merle is. At least, where he was. He's not there anymore.

Rick can see the bit of an edge Daryl gets, though. And he gets it. A guy like Merle probably wouldn't take too kindly to this, and even though Rick can't quite wrap his head around why, he knows Daryl's still got this need to prove himself to his big brother. Frankly, the fact he isn't putting a mile between them is a damn fine relief.

All the same, it makes him uneasy for Daryl's sake. "You sure you're gonna be okay?"

Daryl looks at him funny. "He's my brother, not some psycho like the Governor." He sounds a little indignant.

"Easy now," Rick says. "I didn't mean it like that. You know I didn't." Even if he was thinking it. He's keeping a lid on that, out of respect for Daryl. In the meantime, he thinks it's best to derail this conversation before one or both of them ends up sour. "Come on." He gives Daryl a nudge with his elbow and nods towards the stairs, and he's grateful when Daryl goes right along with it, falling in behind him up the stairs.

Judith's box – he's really gonna have to do something about this; it ain't right putting his baby in a box – is set up on a couple of old crates on the far side of Rick's cell, and he heads on in and puts her down on the blankets they've got layering the bottom. She's still sleeping soundly, and he can only hope she stays that way. Tomorrow's gonna be a hell of a day.

He gets her all settled, blankets adjusted just right because he's a little obsessive like that, and he turns around expecting to see Daryl.

He doesn't.

It takes another bit of turning, over to the doorway, before he sees him. He's standing there, half in half out, looking just a little bit lost.

Rick doesn't waste time on words. He just walks right on over to him, pulls him in to the room, and steers him over towards the bunks. It's high enough that a man can sit up, but he still cups the back of his head to make sure he doesn't smack it on the top bunk. Old police habit, he guesses.

"Let's get a look at y', then," he says as he sits down beside him. He turns, folding one leg up on the bed, and pats Daryl on his arm and gestures for him to do the same.

"I told you I was fine," Daryl mutters. He does it, though, putting his back to Rick. Maybe he's reading too much into it, but that alone strikes him as a big deal. Daryl's not exactly the trustin' sort. Sleeps with his crossbow like a damn teddy bear some nights, always has to keep everyone in his line of sight even when they're just sitting around the common area. No, he's not one to put himself in a vulnerable position.

Makes Rick appreciate moments like this all the more.

He decides to push his luck a little. "You wanna lose the shirt?" Daryl turns his head and gives him a funny look over his shoulder, and Rick rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. "I ain't being frisky," he says, and that's the truth. Mostly. "I want to see how those bruises are coming along, make sure they're healing right."

Daryl's shoulders bob in a chuckle. "Mother hen."

Rick reaches up and tugs his ear playfully. "Watch your mouth," he scolds. "And take off the shirt."

This time, Daryl does what he's told – although not without muttering a few words under his breath that Rick won't repeat – and after a few quick seconds, he sees the shirt go slack on his shoulders. He shrugs out of the one side just fine on his own, but his right side gives him some trouble.

Rick's been there, too. Swinging knives and breaking skulls doesn't come easy, and it doesn't come without a cost. Lots of hyperextensions and torn muscles, and sometimes even just being sore's enough.

"Here, let me help." And he does. Rick slides the other side of his shirt off his arm and tosses the thing around Daryl over to the foot of the bed. When he sits back, he does it with a wince he just barely manages to bite back behind his teeth. It's not that he's sore – he is, but not enough to wince. It's what he sees when he sits back that makes him grimace. Makes him grimace every time.

Daryl's got scars. Rick didn't really get a good idea of how many until that day at the farm, when he'd gone through hell to get that doll, but he's got more'n his fair share. He's seen a lot more of them since then, too. He's traced his fingers over the raised lines of pink flesh, memorized them. He knows the stories behind a few of them, but he doesn't ever ask; just lets Daryl tell him as he feels inclined to do so.

They're not why he's wincing.

Daryl's whole side's a mess of colors that, far as Rick's concerned, don't have any place being on human skin. Especially not Daryl's. It reaches all the way around his back, big blotches of blue and green and yellow that make Rick's sides ache just looking at them. Luckily, there's nothing on his shoulder – he'd been worried about that – but what he's got's enough.

"Remind me why I don't go down there and kick the shit outta that son of a bitch right now," he growls. It's not a genuine threat; he's just pissed and needs to vent.

Daryl seems to realize that, because he doesn't get bent out of shape or anything. He just leans back on one hand, turning his head around to give Rick a look that's almost cheeky. "I got in some licks, too," he says.

"'Course you did." And Daryl looks so damn pleased with himself that Rick smiles despite himself. He rolls his eyes, bringing his hands to rest on Daryl's strong shoulders. Daryl flinches, but Rick just presses a kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder and sets to work trying to loosen up some of the knots tied under that demon tattoo of his.

He knows the second he hits the right spot, because Daryl lets out this muted moan and lets his head fall forward at a frankly unnatural angle. Rick just smiles wider and chuckles. "You're gonna break your neck," he says, and he slips a hand from Daryl's shoulder to his head, tipping it back to rest against his chest instead. "Just how many walkers you take down?" It feels like someone set a troop of Boyscouts on his shoulders, all aiming for their merit badges.

Daryl shrugs the shoulder Rick's not working on. "Shit, I don' know. Eight on the bridge. Fifteen in Woodbury."

"Looks like we got ourselves an overachiever."

"Wiseass," Daryl snorts.

Rick presses another kiss to his neck, over a round scar left behind by a cigarette burn. "I don't hear you complaining."

"That's 'cause I ain't."

"Thought so." Rick kind of figures Daryl'll go along with whatever he says like this. It's not often he relaxes like this, and Rick can appreciate how rare it is.  _Does_  appreciate it. "You did a good thing on that bridge."

Daryl tenses, though. "Yeah…." There's something in his voice. Sounds a little to Rick like guilt.

"What is it?"

Daryl shifts uncomfortably, and he starts to sit up, but Rick uses his grip on his shoulders to hold him in place.

"Hey," he says, "just tell me what it is." He doesn't need to get up for that.

For a minute, Daryl doesn't speak. But then he takes a breath and lets it out steady. "Back in Atlanta, me and Merle…we were gonna rob you. All 'a you. Take your shit and hit the road."

He says it like it's some big confession. And Rick tries to respect that, really he does, but he just…he doesn't get it. "You didn't, though," he says. "Right?" He's pretty sure he would've noticed, but just in case.

"Nah, Merle, he…he went missing 'fore we could. Couldn't do it without him."

"Couldn't, or didn't want to?" Because Rick doesn't claim to know him, but he thinks he's starting to figure out this thing Daryl's got with his brother. Merle's the schemer, the trouble maker, and Daryl just wants to please somebody, just wants someone in his corner. Back before all this, Rick figures Merle was the only one he had.

Daryl hesitates a second, but then he sighs. "It wasn't my idea," he admits. It's not a direct answer to Rick's question, but it's as good as one.

"Then as far as I'm concerned, you got nothing to be sorry for."

"Never said I was sorry," Daryl mutters.

"Good," Rick says. "Don't." He's tired of hearing Daryl apologize for his brother's mistakes. "Now, you got any other uncommitted crimes you don't want to apologize for, or you wanna close your eyes and let me finish?"

He doesn't say it outright, but Rick thinks it's safe to say Daryl chooses Option B.


	6. Playing with Knives

The prison's still standing when Rick gets back from his King County run with Carl and Michonne, which is a relief. With the Governor and his people gunning for them, there's no telling what'll happen.

But no, the prison's still there, and Carol's waiting to open the gate when they pull up. It's just her, Daryl, and Merle out there, but Rick's not too bothered they didn't roll out the welcome wagon. The less people they got outside where a sniper scope can land on them, the better. And Rick feels a certain sense of satisfaction knowing Daryl's making good on his promise to keep an eye on Merle. Not that he doubted he would; it's just good to be assured.

Daryl's got his crossbow out, Rick's guessing to pick of any walkers that get a little too close, but it's not a problem. They get through without a hitch, and even after the shitty sort of day he's had, he can't help the little bit of a smile he feels pulling at his lips. He's got a present for him in the back, and something tells him he'll like it.

"Everything go alright?" Carol asks as they get out.

"We got what we needed," is Rick's answer, because he can't rightly call what went down alright, but everyone lived, so it wasn't half bad either.

Seems it's good enough for Carol; she doesn't press, just joins him at the back. Her eyes widen a little when she sees their haul, but she doesn't comment, just reaches in and grabs an armful.

"Hey."

Rick knows the voice even before he turns around, and sure enough, Daryl's standing behind him, crossbow slung over his shoulder and his lips turned down in a frown. He doesn't quite know why, though, until Daryl reaches for the collar of his shirt.

Rick brushes him off. Not because he's got a problem with Daryl checking up on him, but because it's unnecessary. He doesn't want to worry him over nothing, and that's just what this is. "It's just a nick," he tells him. "Nothin' to worry about."

Daryl's frown just gets deeper, though, and his eyes flicker meaningfully from the bloody spot on Rick's shirt over to Michonne. It's clear enough what he means.  _Was it her?_

"No," Rick tells him quickly, and when Daryl doesn't look convinced, he lowers his voice, looks him dead in the eyes, and repeats himself a little more forcefully this time. " _No_. She's alright."

But Daryl's still looking at her, watching her as she carries the bags she grabs all the way to the prison. He looks angry…wary, and he's not taking his eyes off her for nothing.

Rick gives up on trying to catch his attention that 'a way and ends up grabbing his shoulder and actually turning him back around to face him. "Hey." Finally, Daryl's looking at him, if only because he doesn't have a choice. "Daryl, I said she's alright. This," he plucks at his shirt over the bandage, "had nothin' to do with her. It was my own damn fault, understand?"

Daryl doesn't answer him. His eyes cut over to the side, like they always do when he's bent outta shape about something. "Still don't trust her," he grumbles stubbornly.

"I ain't asking you to trust her," Rick says. "Just trust me."

And he thinks he's made his point, except when he reaches in to get his own armful of bags, Daryl grabs them up right off his arm. He just can't let Rick win, the stubborn son of a bitch.

Rick turns to him, opening his mouth to tell him he's just fine,  _thanking you kindly_ , but the look on Daryl's face kills the protest on his lips. It's not angry anymore. Worse. It's  _worried_.

"Go see Hershel," Daryl says gruffly, voice quiet but firm. It's the voice Rick knows means he's not letting this go, so Rick might as well not even try.

So, he doesn't. Instead, he reaches around him to grab a bag – just the one; he doesn't want Daryl grabbing this one – and while he's leaned in close to him, he mutters, "Mother hen," and flashes him an olive branch of a small smile. Because he's not above using a man's own words against him. It's kind of a cop's prerogative.

Daryl snorts and cuts his eyes over at him, but that  _look_  from before's gone, so Rick counts it a win. He slings the bag over his shoulder, and with one last nod to Daryl, he heads on inside to see Hershel. He reckons Daryl and Merle can handle unloading the rest.

Hershel's waiting for him inside the cell block. He's not sure if it's 'cause someone told him, or if he's just got a sense for these things, but he's got this damn-near exasperated look on his face.

"Well, come on then," he says, nodding towards his cell. "Let's get you fixed up." And then he sets off that direction, leaving right to follow or stand there looking like a fool.

He goes with the former. He falls in a few steps behind Hershel, taking care not to give into the instinct to slow up just 'cause of Hershel's crutches. The man'd probably beat him upside the head with one of them if he caught him doing it, and besides that, Rick's got too much respect for the man. He doesn't need coddling, doesn't need any special treatment. This world ain't chewed him up and spat him out yet; Rick figures Hershel's as strong a man as he ever was.

Maybe stronger.

"So, what happened?" Hershel asks. He's leaning his crutches against the wall and sitting down on the stool he keeps by the bunk for just such occasions. His duffel bag of medical supplies he's taken to calling his 'kit' is already out and open, and Rick's got half a mind to ask if he knew he was coming, but he doesn't. Truth is, he doesn't much care how Hershel does what he does. He's just damn grateful he does.

He makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, shrugging out of it alright. The pain's died down to a dull ache, now. Morgan'd been kind enough – or guilty enough, one – to part with some painkillers and antibiotics he'd scooped up and hoarded away, and Rick can feel at least the first of the two already starting to kick in. Thank God for small mercies, he reckons.

The bandage is a little trickier, so Rick lets Hershel see to that. The man's got rock steady hands, and he does away with the gauze more than quick enough. It's the pad that's the trouble. The blood's wept out and dried, so the wound sticks. Hershel ends up having to peel it away, and damned if he ain't taking his sweet time.

"I've always been more of a 'rip the Band-Aid off' kind of fella, myself," he comments. He's going for conversational, but he's tensed up, so it comes out sounding a little more like a growl than he's intending.

Hershel glances up at him from his staring match with Rick's shoulder, and his lip gives a hint of a twitch, but he doesn't say nothing, just goes right on doing what he's doing. Rick doesn't say anything else, either; he's no doctor, and Hershel hasn't led them wrong, yet. He knows he's in good hands. He best just pipe down and let them do their thing.

He lets his mind wander in the meanwhile. He hears the bags outside, everyone rifling through the goods, putting them away and such. He hears Judith crying and wonders if she needs feeding or changing or just a change of scenery. Whatever it is, she quiets down after a minute, so he figures she got it.

It's another five, ten minutes of poking and prodding on Hershel's part and wincing and tongue-biting on Rick's before he hears the cell block gate swing shut. He wonders if that means Daryl and Merle are just getting in, or if someone left it open, because he doesn't recall them bringing home nearly enough groceries to take that long to unload.

"What's on your mind?" Hershel says after while. He's setting aside the wash cloth he was using to clean the blood that's smeared around the wound away and going for the needle and thread. Shouldn't take much, he thinks. It's not much of a cut he's got – no more than an inch long, and not even all that deep. "Rick."

Rick shakes his head. "Just thinking." That's all it is, really.

"About anything in particular?"

"Nothing that comes to mind."

Hershel nods, but somehow, Rick gets the impression he doesn't quite believe him.

"Why?" he asks, less because he's curious, and more because he'd quite like to think about something other than the sting of the needle and the pull of the thread. "There something in particular I  _ought_  to be thinking?"

"It's not for me to say," Hershel says.

"Say it anyway." Rick knows he wants to, and alright, maybe he is a little curious. What can he say? Another 'a those cop habits holding on too long. He really is an old dog.

Hershel furrows his silver brows and pretends he's too focused on tying off the stitch to answer. But that's all it is: pretending, and when he sits back, Rick's still waiting for an answer.

Hershel doesn't give him one, though. Not at first, anyway. Instead, his eyes flick over to the door, and Rick's not happy about getting scrimshanked, but he goes along with it. He looks over towards the door, too.

First glance, nothing's out of the ordinary. Everyone's sitting around, and they all seem to be in good spirits. A good haul does that, and they take their joys where they can get them.

But then he sees it. Sees him.

He wishes he could say he's surprised to see Daryl doing what he is, pacing back and forth along the far wall like a wild dog in a cage, but it'd taste a lie. He catches his eye for a second, just a second, and he can see that  _look_ is back again, before Daryl's moving right on, pacing trenches in the floor.

"He's worried about you," Hershel says.

Rick turns back to him with a sigh. "He don't need to be."

"That ever stopped anyone before?"

"No," Rick admits. "No, I don't reckon it has." Certainly never stopped him. "I'll talk to him soon as we're done here. Got somethin' for him, anyway."

Hershel's lip twitches again, but it's his eyes that tell Rick what he's thinking. They've got this twinkle to them, not quite mischief, but more like…a silent laugh. No doubt at Rick's expense. But hell, there's so little to laugh about these days, Rick can't even bring himself to mind.

He's thinking, though, Carol might not be the only one's figured something out. And maybe that should bother him, too, but it doesn't. He's not ashamed of what he's got with Daryl; he's grateful. Christ, but he's grateful.

"Alright, then," Hershel says as he smoothes over the last bit of tape on the fresh gauze on Rick's shoulder. "You're free to go."

And with a nod and a 'thanks,' Rick does. He's got the bag slung over his good shoulder again as he stops by his room to pull on a fresh shirt before he heads back out into the block.

"Daryl," he calls. Not that he needed to. He could feel Daryl's eyes on him soon as he started out of the cell. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Daryl doesn't even wait around an ask what for. He meets Rick over by the stairs and follows him up. They barely make it to the top before Daryl's grabbing his arm and backing him up against the wall. And he's kind of wondering why he even bothered buttoning his shirt, because Daryl's flicking the top three right open again and pushing them off his shoulder.

Any other time, he'd be inclined to return the favor. Daryl's bunks barely more'n a few steps away, and from the looks of things, everyone's too busy downstairs making dinner to come 'a knockin'. He's just grateful none of them've picked up the habit of bustin' in for shits and giggles like Daryl's taken to doing with Maggie and Glen. Rick thinks it's 'cause he's taken it upon himself to be the big brother they don't have, but considering Daryl's own experience with big brothers, he keeps his theory to himself.

'Sides, that's not what this is about. This is about Daryl making sure with his own two eyes that Rick's still in one piece, and Rick lets him, because he knows what it's like. He feels it, too. More times than he cares to think about. It's that need to be sure, to  _feel_  with his own hands that everything's still there, that nothing's lost. Because they've lost so damn much, and Rick knows what it's like thinking that losing that one thing, that losing _him_ , would just be more than he could take.

So he waits. He holds still, tries not to fidget as Daryl pulls one of the corners of the gauze down a little so that he can see the wound like a little kid peeking under his band-aid. He's careful.  _So_  careful, like he's afraid Rick's gonna break, and it gets to where Rick can't stand it anymore.

"Hey," he says, catching Daryl's hand. He doesn't push it away like last time; he holds it, lacing his fingers with Daryl's and squeezing firmly. "I'm fine. It's just a nick. Had worse shaving."

"Bullshit."

Seems Daryl's not above turning Rick's words against him, either. Turn-about's fair play, he reckons. "Hershel ain't worried."

But that doesn't seem to put him any more at ease. Daryl's still wound up tighter than a damn drum. "The hell happened out there?"

"It's a long story."

"Shorten it."

 _Well, alright then._  Rick sighs, and tries to think of a way to explain the bittersweet shitfest that was his day. He finally decides on, "Ran into an old friend," and reckons that'll have to do.

Daryl mulls it over for a second, then his eyes narrow. "He the one did that to you?"

Rick knows that barely-veiled fury. Just like he knows that it usually comes before Daryl goes and does something stupid.

He'd kind of like to avoid that this time around, if he can.

"It wasn't like that," Rick tells him. "It was a mistake."

"He mistake you for a knife block?"

Rick raises an eyebrow. "Since when'd you turn into such a smartass?"

"Don't change the subject." Daryl scowls.

Too late, Rick thinks. He lets go of Daryl's hand and turns to the side to get into the bag he brought up with him. "How's this for a subject change?" he asks, and then he pulls out the crossbow they picked up for him out of Morgan's mini-armory.

Daryl's eyes widen, and Rick sees that little bit of stubbornness cling to the argument just a few seconds before it gives up to the kid at Christmas that's just gotten exactly what he wanted.

"Go on," Rick tells him, holding it out to him, and Daryl doesn't need to be told twice.

He takes it, and he's no sooner got it in his hands than he's holding it up to his shoulder and aiming it at a spot on the wall. There's no bolt in it – for obvious reasons; he's been slinging this back around, and from what he gathered with Daryl's experience on the farm, getting an arrow in him's something he'd like to avoid – but Daryl still draws and triggers it.

"You mentioned yours was gettin' kind of tetchy," Rick says. And it's weird and silly, but he's got this tight sort of coil in the pit of his gut that feels a lot like nerves. It just gets tighter and tighter with every second, until it feels like his insides are about to snap.

But then a grin breaks out on Daryl's face, and he slings the strap over his shoulder like he's had it all his life. "Thanks."

Rick knows how hard it is for Daryl to say that, to thank anybody for anything – hell, the fact he's even  _accepting_ what's obviously a gift without so much as a grumble or a scowl is pretty refreshing – and all the knots in his gut unclench. It takes every ounce of self-respect and poise he's got not to sigh in relief.

"Figured you might like it," he says instead.

Daryl nods. "Yeah," he says. "I'd like it better if you didn' come back cut up, though."

"Maybe next time."

"Fuck that." Daryl hoists the crossbow a little higher on his shoulder, and leans in close to tell him firmly, "Next time, I come with you."

"I think I can abide by those terms," Rick replies, a hint of a smile growing on his own face. It's amazing to him, even after a long day like this one, that moments like this can still happen. That something – some _one_  – can still put a smile on his face. "You know, I reckon dinner should be about done by now," he says after a minute. "You coming?"

He needn't have bothered asking. Soon as he starts for the stairs, Daryl's right there with him. He glances over at him, and Daryl meets his glance with a shrug.

"Someone's got to keep your ass away from the knives."


	7. With Me

Everybody's eating breakfast when Rick gets downstairs in the morning. Most everybody, anyways. Carl's out with Michonne on watch; seems he took a real shining to her after yesterday. And Daryl and Merle are nowhere to be found. The latter's not all that surprising, what with the way the older Dixon likes to keep to himself, but considering they got that meeting with the Governor today, he kind of figures Daryl should be around.

"Anybody seen Daryl?" he asks as he joins them all in their little indoor camp. It's just a bunch of boxes all circled around a Coleman lamp, but it's a place to come together. They need that.

Beth hands him a bowl of oatmeal when he sits down and smiles brightly when he nods his thanks. "I haven't seen him," she says, which is odd, because Beth's usually got this sort of sixth sense when it comes to knowing who's where doing what at any given time in their little group. It's uncanny.

"I think I saw him a little while ago heading into Cell Block B with Merle," Glen says. The way he spits Merle's name like it tastes something awful, Rick reckons it's safe to say the air's not any clearer between them. Makes him wonder if leaving them back here together's such a good idea.

Then again, having Glen anywhere near the Governor's an even worse idea by far.

Does raise questions, though, and apparently for more than just him. Carol looks up from her own bowl and frowns. "What's he doing with Merle?"

But before anyone can reply, something echoes through the cell block. Sounds like voices. Angry ones, yelling, and Rick's already sitting his bowl aside and getting to his feet by the time the first round stops. "Asked and answered," he says, and then he starts off towards B-Block. The others are behind him, least some of them, but he's more focused on the sounds of an argument heating up to bother much with them.

In hindsight, he kind of wishes he'd told them to stay back.

"—raise you to be no twink!" It's Merle's voice, booming loud and clear even before they get out of their cell block.

"Fuck you, bro!" And that's Daryl's, a little quieter, but Rick can tell he's whistling Dixie just the same as Merle. "You don't know nothin' about nothin'!"

"I know you got no place playing house with Officer Friendly! You think I'm blind, little brother? I lost my hand, not my damn eyes, and don't you forget whose fault that was, neither!"

"That's on you. Not Rick, and not me, neither! You did that!"

"The hell I did. Your fella  _Rick_  handcuffed me to that roof and left me to the biters! And then you go riding off into the sunset with him like some goddamn fairy princess. The hell's wrong with you?"

"The hell's wrong with me?" Daryl's voice is angry, but it's got that backed-into-a-corner quality to it that Merle's so damn good at getting out of him. "The hell's wrong with you?"

Rick's heart's thundering in his chest, now, because he thinks that this is it. This is what Daryl's been afraid of, what he's been looking out for. All those sideways glances, all the sneaking around….

Merle's figured it out.

And any doubt Rick might have that that's the case gets shot down, dead, next time Merle opens his damn mouth.

"How 'bout 'my good-for-nothing little brother's bending over for a damn cop?' That wrong enough for you, princess?"

There's a long pause after that, and Rick's stomach's in the soles of his boots. He makes it into B-Block, then, just in time to see Daryl shoving Merle's hand off the front of his shirt like it's burned him. "Go to hell," he snaps, and then he turns and makes for the stairs.

Merle's not ready to let it end there, though. "I'll see you there, little sister," he calls after him, this mock-friendliness to the words that's even worse than anger. It's the kind that's meant to cut, meant to dig. Meant to  _hurt_.

The vicious son of a bitch.

"Don't you walk away from me!" he hollers at Daryl's back, and he starts after him. "Darleena! I said don't you walk away!"

But Daryl ignores him – pretends to, at least, because there's no way he can really ignore the shit Merle's throwing at him – and keeps right on walking, all the way to the stairs and down the—

He stops dead.

Up to that point, Daryl didn't know he and Merle weren't alone. Either the angle was no good from where he was standing or he was turned away from them completely.

Coming down the stairs, though, it's a straight shot. Daryl's looking right at them, this expression of surprise on his face that's damn near morbid. And shit, it'd be one thing if it was just Rick standing there. If it was just him hearing what Merle just said. It'd be bad, but Rick Reckoned it would be bearable.

But it's not just Rick standing there. A quick glance behind himself, and Rick realizes Carol and Glen both have followed him in.

And then, after a long, awkward second in which Rick can't even bring himself to breathe, the world starts moving again. Daryl drops his head, less in shame and more like a running back headed straight for the defensive line.

"Well would you look at that, Darleena," Merle calls after him, that same snide, sneering smile that's as much in his voice as on his face. "Looks like we got ourselves an audience." He's right behind Daryl on the stairs, close enough to reach out and nudge him on the back, which he does. Except it's not really a nudge. Nudges don't make someone as steady on his feet as Daryl stumble forward, and it's a damn miracle he manages to keep upright and moving.

Merle doesn't seem as relieved about that as Rick.

He goes to grab him, only soon as he gets his hand on him, Daryl jerks away like Merle's a walker aiming for a bite. It's so sudden and violent, not at all like the way Rick's used to seeing him moving, and Rick can only watch as his feet go out from under him and he falls the last two or three steps and hits the unforgiving concrete. Hard.

"Son of a bitch," Daryl grinds out. He's already starting to push himself up, but he's not too quick about it.

"You did that," Merle retorts innocently. Rick knows he's mocking him. Mocking Daryl.

Rick's already moving forward to help him, but he's coming from the far side of the room. Merle's closer, and gets down close enough to snatch up the back of Daryl's collar like he was trying to do before and haul him up onto his knees by it.

"Come on, now, on your feet. That was barely a love tap." And then Merle looks up and flashes Rick a smirk. "Wasn't it, Officer Friendly?" he asks. The way he says it, though, it's pretty damn clear he's talking about something else.

Rick grits his teeth. Merle wants a rise out of him; he's not gonna get it. "You best take that hand off him," Rick says, his voice dead level. And just in case there's any confusion about that being a request, Rick lets his hand fall to the gun at his hip. When Merle's fingers don't loosen their grip – despite Daryl's twisting and wrenching this way and that, trying to turn himself loose – Rick actually draws it and rests his thumb on the hammer. "I ain't asking you again, Merle." And he means it. Merle's got about three seconds to let Daryl go, or he's putting a bullet in him. Daryl'll just have to understand.

'Course, it doesn't come to that. Rick only gets to two before Merle lets his brother go, and he's still wearing that damn smile as he does.

Rick's got to admit that there's a part of him that's disappointed he let go. He doesn't much care what sort of dysfunctional family loyalty there is between them; a man doesn't do his brother that way.

And  _no one_  does Daryl that way.

He's got half a mind to fire off a round on principle, but he manages to restrain himself, if only outta respect for Daryl. He focuses on him, instead, even though he's still got his eyes on Merle. "You okay?" he asks.

Daryl's pushing himself up again, a little quicker this time. Carol's come over to help him, but when she reaches for his shoulder, he jerks it away. "Get off 'a me," he snaps, and pushes himself the rest of the way to his feet all by his lonesome.

Carol, for her part, doesn't try to stop him. She looks sad, angry, but not at Daryl so much as for him. Rick knows the feeling. He doesn't think he's ever wanted so much to beat a man bloody in his life. Not ever.

He settles for a solid right hook. It's not as much as Rick wants to do, and certainly not as much as Merle deserves, but it does make him feel a little bit better.

Least, it does until Merle spits out a wad of blood on the floor and opens his damn fool mouth again. "Well shit, Officer Friendly, we was just talking, weren't we, little brother?"

Maybe it's sidling along the lines of over-protective, but Rick has half a mind to deck Merle again for having the balls to even  _look_  at Daryl after that shit he's just pulled, much less talk to him. And dammit, he's still got that oily, snakeskin smile.

Rick wonders, if he hits him enough times, if he could still smile like that.

"Didn't look like talking to me," he says. He's trying real hard to keep his voice steady, and he thinks he manages alright. Years of staring down fellas he'd rather see six feet under and keeping himself in check. Should come in handy later with the Governor, he thinks.

"That's just how we communicate," Merle says. And Christ, it's like he actually means what he's saying.

"Not here it's not." He steps in closer, hand still on his gun at his hip, and as much steel in his eyes as he can muster. It's a threat, and it ain't an empty one. It's not coincidence, either, that he's standing between Merle and his brother. He's done standing by, letting Merle do whatever he feels like. Letting Merle screw with Daryl's head. He'll protect what's his.

Merle must notice. His eyes flick back and forth between Rick and Daryl, and after a second, he lets out a chuckle. "Looks like I might 'a got it wrong, little brother," he says after while. "Thinking Officer Friendly here had you whipped like a little puppy dog. Seems to me it might be the other way ar—"

Rick sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he scarcely has time to blink before he's throwing out an arm and catching Daryl when he lunges at his brother.

"Shut the hell up!" Daryl shouts, and he throws all his weight into trying to get at Merle. There's a fire in him; Rick knows if he let him go, they might have one hell of a fight on their hands. And although Rick'd be more than happy to see Daryl beat some sense into his brother – or at least give it a good shot – he's seen what happens when the two of them fight. The whole point of this exercise is keeping Merle from doing any more damage than he already has. If that means Daryl can't do any in turn, then he reckons he'll just have to accept that.

Mercifully, Glen steps up. He's got Daryl's arm from behind, holding him back from taking a swing at his brother. At this distance, he'd probably hit. In the meantime, Rick's got his other side, and he's got an arm around his waist trying to manhandle him back a few feet. He wants to put as much space between the two of them as he can.

Daryl's not making it easy for him, though.

Merle, neither. "That's right. Down, boy," he jeers. "Listen to your buddy Rick."

"Fuck you!" And damned if Daryl's not the squirreliest bastard Rick's ever tried holding back, because even with Glen and Rick both holding him, he manages to get loose. He ducks his head down and lunges as his brother, catching him in the gut with his shoulder and tackling him back onto the stairs.

Rick swears and hurries forward just as quick as Daryl did. He grabs him, gets a hand under his arm and around his shoulder and grabs his belt with the other, but Daryl holds on tight. He's digging his feet into the ground, and he's got Merle around the middle, punching his sides. Merle's not just sitting and taking it, either; he brings his balled-up fist down on Daryl's back hard enough that Rick can hear the thud.

He does notice Merle doesn't use his knife. Maybe he'll appreciate that later. Right now, though, he's too bent on getting Daryl as far away as possible to pay it much mind.

"Daryl!" He wrenches him back, and Glen helps. They manage to pull him off, except he gets loose and sets right back on Merle again. "Dammit, come here!" The second time goes better, and together, he and Glen manage to drag Daryl back off his brother and onto his feet. Daryl starts towards him again, but Rick catches him with a hand on his chest, holding him out, and he can hear Merle getting up behind him.

"Still got some fight left in ya after all, huh, little brother?" Merle says, and Rick turns and shoots him a warning glance before turning back to Glen.

"Get him out of here," he tells him, and Glen nods. Truth be told, Rick knows that if Daryl really wanted to stick around, there wouldn't be a whole hell of a lot Glen, or hell, probably even Rick, could do to stop him. Not without things turning nasty. But thankfully, as Glen starts pushing Daryl back for the door to the cell block, he lets him. He keeps his eyes on his brother, and if looks could kill, Merle'd burst into flames. But he goes, and Rick's grateful for that. "Carol, go with them." She's got as good a shot as anyone at getting Daryl settled back down, and Glen could use all the help he can get.

Soon as she's clear, Rick turns back to Merle. He's smiling, and Rick feels his gut clench. He's trying so hard not to finish what Daryl started. "You're a real piece of work," he says.

"Mouthful coming from you, Officer Friendly." The smile falls, then, replaced with a scowl. "I shoulda killed you on that rooftop when I had the chance. 'Fore you screwed my brother up."

"You never had a chance," Rick says humorlessly. "And there's nothing wrong with your brother. Not a damn thing." He can see the argument forming on Merle's lips, and he doesn't want to hear it. If Merle can't see what's right in front of him, then that's on him. Rick's done putting up with it. "You stay here in this cell block 'til I say otherwise. You set one foot inside A-Block, I'll shoot you on sight."

And that's all he's got to say to him, so he leaves. He's got shit to do today, not the least of which's smoothing Daryl's ruffled feathers.

Speaking of….

Carol's waiting for him in the main room between the two cell blocks, her arms crossed and a frown on her face. Rick's about to ask her where Daryl got off to – he's not there – but she beats him to it. "He's already out by his bike. Hershel, too. They're ready to go."

Rick's not so sure about that, but he nods his thanks, anyway. It's time they got going, anyhow, so he makes sure to check his pistol, and then he heads out to join them. True to Carol's words, Hershel's already waiting for him in the car. He sees him first, but then Hershel nods to something behind him, and Rick glances over his shoulder to see Daryl standing over by his bike, crossbow already slung over his shoulder.

Rick turns back to Hershel. They don't exchange words; they don't need to. Hershel just nods, and Rick leaves him for a minute. He needs to talk to Daryl.

Daryl's pacing when he gets over to him, staring at his bike and chewing on his thumb nail like he's thinking real hard about something. It's the look he gets when there's something the matter with it, except it was working fine last night, so Rick can't help wondering if maybe it's not the bike that's got the problem.

"You okay?" he asks when he makes it over to him.

Daryl glances up at him, but then looks right back at his bike. He doesn't stop pacing.

It's gonna be like that, then, Rick realizes. Alright. He can deal with it.

He waits until Daryl starts his next round and cuts him off, a hand on his shoulder, and when Daryl tries to flinch back, he doesn't let him. "Hey," he says, "I need you right now, alright? This thing with the Governor – I need you with me."

"I got it," Daryl mumbles.

It's not his most convincing performance.

Rick sighs. "Daryl, what Merle said…"

"Leave it, Rick."

"No."

Daryl frowns. "It ain't a big deal, alright? He figured it out. Who the hell cares?"

Except Rick notices he's making a point of looking anywhere but at him, and even though Rick's holding him in place, he's shifting from foot to foot. He's worked up, miserable.

He's  _upset_.

Merle really is a son of a bitch.

"He'll come around," Rick says.

A dry chuckle forces its way out of Daryl's throat. "You don't know my brother."

Rick thinks he knows him well enough. More than he'd like, for damn sure. But that's not what Daryl needs to hear right now. "Listen…I know he's your brother, and I understand that. But you need to understand that just 'cause he's your only blood, that don't mean he's your only family. Remember that. We're family, too."

Daryl doesn't say anything to that; Rick's not really expecting him to. But after a good long moment, he feels a little bit of the tension coiled in his shoulder ease up a little, and that's a start.

He sniffs, brushing his nose awkwardly with the thumb he's just finished chewing on, and Rick knows that's about as much of this line of conversation Daryl's gonna stand for. He thinks it's enough, though.

"So, we gonna do this thing, or not?" Daryl says, voice gruff as it ever is.

And Rick smiles, because even after that shit with his brother, he knows Daryl's with him.


	8. Prove It

It used to be Rick thought walkers were the baddest things out there he had to worry about. People were people, but that was nothing new. Walkers, though…they were somethin' new. And there was a time not too long ago when the most vicious thing Rick could think of, the sickest thing haunting his nightmares, was a hungry biter comin' at him or one of his own.

He never thought he'd look back on those times fondly.

The meeting with the Governor's got him all turned around. It's gotten to where even walkers don't surprise him much. Scare him, sure. That never stops. But surprises…they don't hold any for him anymore.

This world, though, it's bred a whole new kind of people. Or maybe it's just raised 'em up, given 'em something they didn't have before. Men like that Governor've probably always been around, he reckons, but now they've got whole towns behind them, and just like walkers, crazy's a hell of a lot scarier in numbers.

He's not rightly sure how to deal with it, his ultimatum. Problem with a thing like that's how easy it sounds. Turn over Michonne, let that be that. One person for the rest of his people. They'll all die anyhow if he don't, Michonne included.

Except it's not that easy. Never is, he reckons, but it's really not now. One person's still a person, and as Hershel so kindly pointed out, she saved him and Carl both. A man doesn't just ignore a debt like that, doesn't just turn a decent human being over to a vulture like the Governor.

He just doesn't see as how he's got any other option. Hershel was less than helpful earlier on the walkway, and Daryl's been up in the guard tower all afternoon. Rick gets the feeling he doesn't want disturbing, and truth be told, if he's looking for someone to talk him out of something, Daryl's not gonna be the one to do it. It's not that Rick thinks he's got no mind of his own, that he doesn't have a thought one way or the other.

Problem is, he thinks Daryl thinks it. Thinks he doesn't know as well as others do. As well as Rick does. And even if there aren't words for just how wrong he is thinking that, it's awful hard to counter around three decade's worth of learned habits. Daryl'll do what he thinks needs doing, and unfortunately, that tends to be whatever Rick thinks needs doing. Don't get him wrong, either; Rick appreciates that.

It's just not what he needs right now.

Truth be told, he's not rightly sure how he ended up here, walking into C-Block. Another fight's not what he needs. Or, then again, maybe it is. See, guys like Merle, Rick can handle just fine. He's a sick son of a bitch and all, but he's not  _that_  kind of sick.

If nothing else, Rick reckons he can count on Merle to tell it to him straight.

"Well, now, if it isn't Officer Friendly," Merle's voice comes echoing down from the second floor. Rick doesn't even bother looking up, just keeps coming right on in towards the stairs. 'Course, he doesn't have to look to know Merle's glaring holes in the top of his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't you the one tellin' me to steer clear of y'alls little slice of heaven over there?"

"I'm here to talk." And at the sound of boots on the metal stairs, Rick finally does get around to looking up. Merle's only come down a couple steps, and sure enough, he's glaring hellfire straight down at Rick from where he is.

"I got nothin' to say to you," he says.

Rick pushes off his spot on the wall and comes to stand by the bottom of the stairs. "Fine by me. I'll do the talking." It's probably best that way, anyhow. Except before Rick can get a word out, Merle's storming the rest of the way down the stairs.

He doesn't stop 'til he's right up on top of Rick, and Rick doesn't move, either. "I ought to kill you for what you done to my brother," Merle growls. If Rick didn't know any better, he'd say it came out of nowhere. Only shit like this doesn't just spring up, and he happens to know a thing or two about being left alone with his own thoughts, with his own actions. Merle sounds angry enough, but there's a whole lot of something else in his eyes besides. "Ain't bad enough you drag him out to play your goddamn attack dog with the Governor; you go an' make him your bitch."

The punch Rick throws in response don't come out of nowhere, either; he reckons, though, that it just about feels that way to Merle. It's not half as hard as a slight like that deserves and not a quarter as hard as Rick has a mind to give, but he doesn't happen to have a crowbar or bat handy to make that happen, so he reckons that'll just have to suffice.

It's enough to crack Merle's head to the side, enough to make him spit blood on the concrete floor, and before he straightens up, Rick grabs him around the back of the neck.

"If you got a problem with me," he tells him through gritted teeth, "then you have it with me. Your brother's done nothin' but right by you, and you've done nothing but piss all over him since you laid eyes on him."

"He ain't my brother anymore!" Merle shouts, and he throws out his good arm and manages to catch Rick in the gut hard enough to wind him and make him drop his hand from Merle's neck. He straightens while Rick's catching his breath, closing in on him with his fist bunched. "'Fore I left, Daryl didn't want nothin' to do with nobody. And he sure as hell wasn't no faggot. Now I come back and you got him bending over one way or another seems like every time I turn around. The hell'd you do to him?"

Rick's got half a mind to show Merle bending over with a solid right dead center of his gut, but he stops himself. It's an accusation Merle's throwing at him, but it's something else to. A real question. Sounds oddly…concerned.

He settles for grabbing him by the front of the shirt and shoving him back into the stair rail. "You wanna know what I did to your brother?" he grinds out. "I stopped treating him like shit, you backbitin' son of a bitch. I stopped tellin' him he wasn't good for nothin' and gave him a place in this group, and he took it."

Merle's lip curls in a sneering snarl. "I bet he did. Reckon he takes a lot of things from you he's got no business taking."

"Do you even hear yourself?" Rick can hardly believe them himself, and he's sure as hell got a lower opinion of Merle than he's got of himself. "He's your goddamn brother!"

"And what the hell's he to you?"

"Does my answer change yours?"

"I reckon it just might," Merle says impetuously.

Stubbornness, Rick thinks, must run in the family. And he's of the opinion that that's just about where the resemblance ends.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, lest he do something hasty he might – but probably won't, if he's being honest – end up regretting. When he speaks, his jaws clamped so tight he can feel the bones grinding, but his tone's dead level. "Daryl's the man I trust with my life and the lives of everyone I care about," he says, because that's really the only way he knows of saying it. There's no one word for what Daryl is to him. He doesn't reckon there's any combination of them, either, that really does it justice, much as he might try. "He's someone I'll do whatever I gotta do to protect from whatever or  _whoever_ ," that part's said with a tightening of his grip on Merle's shirt, "means to do him harm. And he's someone I love dearly. Truth be told, I was hoping that might be a common ground you and I might stand on moving forward, but now I'm not so sure that's the case."

That gets a growl out of Merle. "You don't know shit about my little brother. Not like I do."

"A lot's changed since you left. Seems to me you don't know your brother well as you'd like to think."

"I know he's got no place scuzzing it up with the likes of you."

"I'm not inclined to disagree," Rick says. "But I'm sure as hell better'n you. Like I said: I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. The hell can you say?"

And with that, deeming his point more or less made, Rick turns Merle's shirt loose and makes a point of plucking his shirt smooth again. Before he leaves, though, there's one last thing.

"And just so as we understand each other, the rules still stand. I see you in my  _little slice of heaven_ uninvited, I shoot you dead, no second chances. And I catch you disrespecting him again…same rules apply." Then he turns and makes for the door.

"Hey Officer Friendly!"

Rick turns. Merle's looking at him, a look that's a little farther from seething rage and a little closer to something that looks humanly decent. Maybe even…sad.

"I love my little brother," he tells him, and damned if he doesn't sound earnest.

Maybe they've got some common ground after all.

"Yeah?" he calls over his shoulder as he turns, once again, to leave. "Prove it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep the comments coming. I know it sounds silly, but they really do make me want to write. Motivation! :)


	9. Michonne

When Rick sees Daryl the next morning, he smells like cigarette smoke and looks like he hasn't slept in days.

Rick ignores the former and feels for the latter. He didn't get much sleep before the Governor, and he certainly hasn't gotten any sleep since. Last night was a particular brand of hell.

Now it's just him, Daryl, and Hershel standing outside in the yard, listening to walkers hiss and groan and carry on and trying to figure out what the hell they're going to do. He's got his mind made up, sure enough. He'll give Michonne over to the Governor, to protect his people. He'll do what he needs to do.

"It's the only way." He's not quite sure who he's trying to convince. "No one else knows."

"You gonna tell 'em?" Daryl asks. He's standing a little off from Rick and Hershel, body angled towards the gate. Rick's hoping it's 'cause he can't bring himself to put his back to a bunch of walkers and not because he can't bear to face Rick.

He sighs. "Not 'til after." He doesn't think they could do it. Truth be told, he's still trying to figure out whether he can or not, and if he can, how. "We have to do it today. It has to be quiet."

As he speaks, Daryl turns away from the fence, paces a few steps, and sort of glances up at him without really looking at him. "You got a plan?"

"We tell her we need to talk," Rick says, walking a little closer to Daryl. He's relieved when Daryl doesn't step back or look down. Relieved when he looks him in the eye. So long as Daryl can still do that, and so long as Rick can bring himself to meet his gaze, things might be alright between them. "Away from the others."

He's not surprised when Daryl glances over his shoulder at Hershel. He knows damn well how all this sounds. Underhanded. Conniving.  _Wrong_. And it's reflected in Daryl's eyes, as he drops them to the ground and purses his lips, shaking his head.

"It just ain't us, man," he says. He looks so damn lost as he says it, so damn sad, and Rick hates himself for bringing him into this. For pulling Daryl down to his level.

"No," Hershel says from behind him. "No, it isn't." And then he takes his leave of them.

Rick's left standing there with Daryl, those blue eyes of his weighing on him heavy, and he knows… _Christ_ , he knows this is wrong. He just doesn't see another way out.

"We do this, we avoid a fight. No one else dies."

Daryl just stares at him for a long minute and then, damn it…damn it all, he nods. "Alright." But Rick can see in his eyes doesn't think it's right, and part of him wishes he'd come out and say it instead of just going along with Rick's sick, selfish plan.

But he doesn't. Rick knew he wouldn't,  _knows_  he wouldn't.

Somehow, that just makes him feel worse.

He takes a long minute, staring at the walker just outside the gate and wishing like hell they were back in Atlanta, when that was all they had to worry about. No Governor's, no asshole brothers, just the living versus the dead. Life was so much simpler, then, right after it all went to hell.

Now it's sunken down deeper, and Rick's not sure they can stay above it any longer.

"We need someone else," he says finally. He doesn't need to say anything more than that. he can tell from the way Daryl averts his eyes that he knows just who he's talking about.

He nods again, though. "I'll talk to him."

"I'll do it." Partly because he's still not sure he wants Daryl going anywhere near him, but mostly because he feels like it should come from him.

But Daryl doesn't let it go. "I'll go with you."

Rick knows he's just trying to help, but he doesn't  _want_  him to. Not on this. Daryl's a better man than Rick is; he knows that, even if Daryl doesn't. Just telling him's bad enough; he's dragged him down enough.

"No," Rick says. "Just me." This is his choice, his call. It'll be his burden to bear.

It takes everything he has to ignore the flash of hurt in Daryl's eyes, hidden as it is, and to turn and walk away. He's got work to do.

It's time to pay another visit to C-Block.

The sound of shredding fabric greets him as he walks into the other cell block. He's a mite surprised to see all the bedding scattered on the floor and more falling to join it, but he hardly pays it much mind. He just steps over it, around it, even on it, and continues up the stairs to the source of the noise and, far as he can tell, the mess.

He sees Merle before he even gets to the top of the stairs, and he stops when Merle turns to look at him, too.

"Just lookin' for a little vacation," Merle tells him. Seems they're operating under the impression their last conversation never happened; Rick's alright with that, for the time being. "Best dope I ever had was in a mattress." He rips at another shred of fake cotton and tosses it away with a sigh. "Nothin'."

He must've been at it for a while, too, from the looks of him. He's sweaty and sucking some serious wind as he shifts over from his knees to sit on his ass against the wall. "This place must've been no fun at all."

As fascinating as all that is, Rick's not much for conversation right at the moment. Instead, he swallows and grits his teeth. "We need your help."

Merle laughs, and the sound follows Rick the rest of the way up the stairs and around to the cell he's sitting in. Christ, the whole place's torn to shreds, he realizes. Like someone turned loose a rabid dog.

That might not be too far off.

"Do you even know  _why_  you do the things you do?" he asks. "The choices you make?" Between yesterday, that shit he pulled with Daryl, and now…Rick just can't peg him, and he's curious as to whether Merle can even peg himself.

Merle doesn't answer, though, just stares, and Rick lets it be. He's not here for that.

"If we give the Governor Michonne, Woodbury stands down." As he speaks, Merle stands. Seems that got his attention alright. "I don't like it, but it's what needs to be done. We need to make it quiet. We need your help with that."

Merle studies him a second, then, "You ain't told any 'a the others, huh?"

"Just Hershel, Daryl, and you."

"Huh." Merle chuckles dryly. "The inner circle. I'm honored."

Somehow, Rick gets the feeling he's being sarcastic.

"You know, when we'd go out on runs, he'd bash somebody's skull, slash somebody's throat, and he'd say, 'Never waste a bullet.'" He's talking about the Governor; least, Rick hopes he is. "I always thought it was just an excuse."

As if Rick needed reminded just how suck a son of a bitch the Governor was. If even Merle's got reservations, Rick might've even underestimated him.

"You go on," Merle says. "Give him that girl. He ain't gonna kill her, you know. He's just gonna do things to her. Probably…take out one of her eyes. Both of 'em, most likely. You'd let that happen…for a shot?"

Rick feels his gut twist. Bile rises in the back of his throat, because he's thought of that. He's thought of all that. But hearing it from someone else, even someone like Merle, that's a hell of a lot harder to write off.

Merle just shakes his head. "Whew. You're cold as ice, Officer Friendly."

Even coming from him, Rick knows that ain't a compliment.

"You're gonna need wire, not rope. Wire. Nothin' she could chew through…oh." He stops; his eyes widen like something's just struck him. "You know, you're right. I don't know why I do the things I do. Never did. I'm a damn mystery to me." And damned if his eyes aren't heavy, too. Darker, crueler, but they see through him just the same as Daryl's do. Only, they don't seem quite so impressed with what they see. "But I know you, Rick…yeah, I thought a lot about you. You ain't got the spine for it."

And even just then, it sounds like a challenge. He hears his own words echoing back to him,  _Prove it._  Saying he'll do what it take to keep Daryl safe, to keep his people safe.

Merle acts like he's calling his bluff.

Maybe, Rick thinks, he is.

"We need to get her to the Governor by noon." And that's it. However it happens, that's what needs to be done.

And if Merle gives two shits about his brother, he'll help Rick do it.

With everything said that needs saying, Rick leaves him. He doesn't make it far, though, maybe to B-Block, before he starts to hear shouting. The more he listens, the more he realizes…it sounds a whole hell of a lot like Carl.

He's running before he even realizes he means to, heading outside to the yard where he hears it coming from. He's got his gun out, tucked against his shoulder ready to shoot by the time he makes it out, only to stop when he reaches the gate.

They're baiting them, he realizes. He and Maggie are out there pounding on pots and buckets, shouting at the walkers to get them over to the fence, and it's not 'til he looks out in the field that he realizes why. Daryl's out by the truck, and after a second, Glen comes around to help him haul a slab of mounted barbed wire out of the bed. Looking over a little more, he sees Michonne's out taking the tops off any strays that Maggie and Carl haven't drawn out while Glen and Daryl hammer their makeshift tire spikes into the ground.

Seems they're just finishing up, and as they start driving towards the gate, Rick runs over to let them in before pulling it closed and locking it again.

"They try to drive up to the gate again, maybe some blown tires will stop them," Glen explains as he joins them by the truck.

"That's a good idea."

"It was Michonne's," Daryl mutters. For three words, he says a whole hell of a lot.

Rick looks away from him, just in time to see Michonne coming around from the front of the truck. "We don't have to win," she's saying. "We just have to make their getting at us more trouble than it's worth."

 _We_ , she says.  _Us_.

Rick realizes then something he's been trying to deny ever since he had that talk with the Governor: Michonne's one of them. She's part of their group, now. She's saved their lives, worked alongside them. She's trying to help them.

And he can't help wondering what the hell he's doing.

"Hey."

Rick turns around. Daryl's standing right behind him, looking at him, and when he sees he's got Rick's attention, he nods.

 _I still got you_ , it says.

Rick's not sure whether that makes him feel better or worse. Either way, it reminds him what he's doing. Reminds him of the promise he made, if not to Merle, then to himself. And he forces back all the doubt, swallows back the self-recrimination and the second thoughts, and he nods.

"Let's go," he says, and then he starts walking.

He doesn't have to look back to know his people are behind him. Daryl, Carl, Maggie, Glen, Beth.

He doesn't have to look back to know Michonne's right there with them.


	10. Heart

He still sees her sometimes. Lori. Always in front of the sun, always outlined like some sort of angel with a halo, watching him.

She looks sad this time.

"You're not there," Rick says, but it's more of a plea than a fact. Because even if he knows she's not there, it still feels real. The pain in his chest. Christ, but she looks so sad.

The worst part's knowing why. He didn't used to, not when it first started happening. He thought he was just losing his mind.

Truth be told, he hasn't quite ruled that out yet.

There's more to it than that, though. At least he thinks there is. Hopes there is. And sitting here, kneeling on the ground with this cord wrapped around his hand, getting ready to do something he knows ain't right, ain't _human_ , he thinks he understands.

He's doing this to keep what happened to her from happening to the others. To keep  _himself_  from losing anyone else. But he can see it, now, the sadness in her eyes…it reminds him of the look in Daryl's eyes when he first told him the plan, and he realizes that he might be doing this to protect him, but by doing it, he loses him.

Oh, he'll stay; Rick knows he'll stay. He's too damn loyal not to. He'll even help him. But he'll never look at him the same again. Never with that trust in his eyes, that belief, like Rick's some sort of guiding light. Even though he knows he doesn't deserve it in the first place – he's no saint, no great leader, no matter how Daryl sees him – he knows losing that would mean losing one of the only parts of himself that's worth keeping.

Lori was his heart. They might've had their problems, but she was his conscience in a time he wasn't sure he could afford to have one. When she died, it left a hole that Rick wasn't sure he'd ever fill. Wasn't sure he wanted to.

But then Daryl came along. Never judged, just  _trusted_. A man like that, strong and, underneath all that dirt and blood,  _good_ , putting his faith in Rick…it made him hold himself to a better standard.  _Makes_  him hold himself to that standard.

Somewhere along the line, Daryl became his heart. And now, more than ever, he can't afford to lose it.

With a silent, desperate curse, he rips the cord off his hands. Merle was right; he can't do this. He'll do whatever he can to keep his people safe, but he can't do this. He can't turn into someone like the Governor, or else what the hell's he fighting for anyway?

Seems he's not the only one thinking along those lines, either. He goes in, every intention of finding Daryl and telling him about their change in plans, but Hershel catches him first.

"Rick!" he says, and Rick feels a surge of shame well in the pit of his gut, because there's Maggie and Beth over at the table, and he's about to tell him that he's going back on his promise to protect them. "What you're about to do—"

"I can't." But no, that's not true. He could do it. Physically, he could. But, "I won't." And then he goes to tell Daryl and his brother as much.

Just before he turns to leave, though, he thinks he sees something akin to relief in Hershel's eyes.

He only wishes he could be so lucky.

He spends no less than half an hour in the prison, running through all the cell blocks, asking everyone he runs into on the way, whether they've seen Daryl or Merle or Michonne. The former, Glenn tells him, is out by the old basketball courts. The latter two, though, no-one's seen hide nor hair of all morning.

At the very least, Daryl's right where Glen said he'd be, standing out on the court with his crossbow on his shoulder and a gun in his arm. Like he's gearing up for something.

He might be right to.

There's an awful sort of notion brewing in Rick's head as he jogs on out to him. There's something going on, and it's nothing good.

"It's off," he calls across the yard to Daryl, and Daryl turns around. "We'll take our chances."

He knows for a fact that's relief he sees in Daryl's eyes, maybe even a little stronger than what he saw in Hershel's.

"I'm not sayin' it was the wrong call, but this is definitely the right one." And there it is again. That trust Rick's come to rely on. It only lasts a second, though, before Daryl's brows furrow and he stops. "What's wrong?"

Of course he noticed. Rick's come to reckon that the day he gets anything over on Daryl is the day pigs fly. Which is made all the more unlikely by the fact that Rick doesn't think he's seen a pig since this whole thing started.

He grits his teeth. "I can't find Merle or Michonne. They've gone." And Rick's thinking, if anyone can help find them, it's gonna be Daryl.

Sure enough, Daryl takes one look around, then turns on his heel. "Come on," he says, and takes off at a run towards the stairs to the generator room. They don't slow down until they get inside, where Daryl slows to an almost pacing sort of walk. "He was in here. Said he was lookin' for drugs." He hesitates for a second, and now he's definitely pacing. Rick can't see his face, but he sounds kind of…hurt. "Said a lot of things, actually."

Rick tries to keep his attention on the task at hand, because they  _need_  to find Merle and Michonne. He has a feeling they're together, too. But he can't quite keep himself restrained entirely. "Like what?" He manages to make it sound casual, even though he can already imagine giving Merle another piece of his mind when he finds him.

He meets Daryl around the other side of the generator, but Daryl's eyes are fixed on the ground. "Said that you were gonna change your mind," he says, but it's not a criticism. Least, Rick doesn't think it is, and he doesn't get a chance to ask. "Here we go."

Daryl takes a knee next to what looks like a ripped up old pillow case. Rick's seen his tracking skills in action enough times to know not to question it, either, as he picks it up, looks at it, and tosses it down just as quick, saying, "Yeah, he took her here. They mixed it up."

He knows he's right.

"Damn it!" That bad little notion's just been confirmed. Merle took Michonne. He's gonna make the trade for Rick. Suddenly, Rick's regretting those words from before, telling him to prove it. Seems he rose to the challenge where Rick didn't. "I'm going after him."

As he takes off through the storeroom for the door, he hears Daryl coming after him.

"You can't track for shit," Daryl calls.

Rick makes it to the door and rounds on him. "Well then the both of us."

But Daryl passes him to the door. "No, just me," he tells him. "I said I'd go, and I'll go." Rick's not sure if it means something, the way he comes to stand between Rick and the door, or if it's just coincidence, but there's a fire in Daryl's eyes. He's not backing down. "Plus, they're gonna come back here. You need to be ready. Your family too."

And then Daryl's gone, and Rick's left standing by the door, watching it swing closed. This is the second time he's watched Daryl run after his brother, the second time he's watched him run off after his damn brother.

Only, this time…it feels different.

Last time, it had felt like losing him. Felt like he was never coming back. This time, though…well, maybe it's his imagination getting the better of him, but that last thing Daryl said...could just be his accent, but the more Rick thinks about it, it kinda sounded like he might've said something else.

Kind of sounded like he said, " _You're_  family, too."

And somehow, he knows that this time, Daryl's coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys, I know it's been kinda dry these last couple chapters. But I woulda felt like I was cheaping out if I didn't cover this part before getting to the good stuff. Which is, by the way, coming up in Chapter 11. Plenty of angst, plenty of Rickyl, plenty of h/c, so just bear with me.


	11. A Proper Send-Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, there be angst. Ye have been warned.

It's not Daryl he sees coming back through the woods, though. He's been up in the tower for a couple hours since his little talk with the others, watching the woods in the direction Daryl ran off in, waiting to see him coming back with his brother and Michonne in tow. Or at gunpoint. He really doesn't care which.

Just about now, he'd settle for either. Because it's not Daryl that crests that hill; it's Michonne.

He stares through the scope a minute longer, holding his breath, waiting to see that familiar head of dark, shaggy hair coming up behind her.

It doesn't.

It takes everything Rick has to breathe through the knot of dread tightening around his chest. Daryl's not there. Daryl should  _be there_. He wouldn't  _not_  come back, not after everything.

Something happened.

Glen's down at the bottom of the guard tower when he comes running down the stairs. "What's going on?" he calls after him.

He's already halfway to the car, keys in hand. "Michonne's back."

"Then where are you going?" And just when Rick's about to get in the car, he catches the door. "Rick, what's going on?"

"Daryl's not with her. Neither is Merle."

Glen's eyes widen. "You don't think…"

That Daryl and Merle broke off and left? Rick shakes his head. "No. Daryl wouldn't leave. Which means Merle let Michonne go, and he's about to go do something stupid, if he hasn't already." His grip on the car door tightens with the knot in his gut. "And Daryl's right behind him."

He can see it dawn on Glen, and the moment it does, he takes his hand off the door and lets Rick get in and pull it closed. "I'll get the gate and tell the others."

Rick nods his thanks and tosses Glen the keys through the open window. "And see what you can get out of Michonne on what happened." If there's something they need to know, he'd like someone to know it sooner rather than later. "You're in charge 'til I get back."

Glen nods, and with a sharp tap on the top of the car, he goes running off towards the gate.

Michonne's just making it to the gate when Rick does, but instead of passing him like Rick thinks she ought to, she steps right in front of him. Rick revs the engine once or twice, but when she doesn't budge, he gets out of the car.

"He told me not to let anyone come after him," she says. "Your hunter."

"You plannin' on stoppin' me?" He dares her to try. He may not have turned her over to the Governor, but if she stands between him and Daryl, their relationship might just take a turn for the worse.

Michonne doesn't reply. After a long, tense moment, though – a long,  _wasted_  moment – she frowns and steps to the side. It's not much, but it's enough, and Rick climbs back in the car and drives past her before she can change her mind.

He hits the road like a bat out of hell.

He's not rightly sure where he's going. Daryl was right; he can't track for shit. But if Merle's doing what he thinks he's doing, then Woodbury seems like a safe heading. Well, safe in that he reckons chances are good of Merle being there. How safe it actually is isn't a thought Rick really cares to entertain.

There are a lot of those: thoughts he doesn't care to entertain. A lot of 'what-if's, mostly. What if he's wrong? What if Daryl and Merle skidaddled? Or worse, what if Daryl found Merle, and Merle dragged him into his hair-brained, suicidal assault on Woodbury?

He shakes his head, blinking furiously to try to focus his eyes on the road. To keep his imagination from getting the best of him. Truth be told, he's got no idea what the hell he's doing. He can't track. He doesn't even really know which way Daryl headed, doesn't know where he is. He just…he  _needs_  to find him. Needs to know that he's safe. There's nothing else to it than that. He  _needs_  Daryl to be safe.

The closer he gets to Woodbury, the tighter the knot in his gut gets. He knows Daryl can handle himself, and he's no fool, but…shit, if the Governor and his people find the Dixons before he does, there's no telling what'll happen.

So he drives a little faster, eyes trained on the road for any sign of either of the brothers. If he's got to go to Woodbury himself, well then he reckons he'll do it. And it's looking like it might come to that. He's passing the feed and seed where he met with the Governor, just outside Woodbury. He's so busy worrying about every inch of road that passes that he almost misses it:

Smoke.

There's smoke coming up over top of the building. It's dark smoke, and now that Rick's really paying attention, the air smells like something's burning. Like barbeque over an old brush pile.

He's not real sure what it is, and it's probably a damn fool move anyhow – anyone could be making that fire, and it's sidled right up next to the Governor's territory – but he's whipping off the road so fast the car drifts a little and shutting off the engine. Gun out and at the ready, he climbs out of the car and starts around back of the building where all the smoke's coming from.

He's sneaking through the feed tanks when he first starts seein' them. The bodies. He recognizes a few of them from his run-ins with the Woodbury folk, and from the looks of the one Rick finds himself stepping over, it wasn't just a walker attack. This one's got a bullet hole in his head; matches the big bloodstain on his side alright. He reckons someone put him down before he could get back up.

There's more of them the farther around back he gets. He doesn't see any walkers around, but these have been chewed on pretty damn thorough. They've all been put down, too. Blood and bits of brain are scattered on the dried-out dirt around their heads, save a few that look to have gotten a little bit more personal treatment with a knife or something of the sort.

It's when he comes around the corner of a rickety-looking supply shed, right next to a rusted-out gas tank, that he sees it. Out dead center of the yard, in front of a couple of old tractors, there's a fire blazing. He can't make out what it's burning, but there's a bundle of something on the ground that tells him someone went through a lot of trouble getting this thing going.

The sharp crack of breaking wood around the corner of the building makes him snap his gun around, only to let out a sigh of relief when he sees who it is.

"Daryl," he calls out, letting his gun fall and pushing it back around behind his back. Reckons well enough that if Daryl's got his crossbow put down that there can't be too much danger around.

Only…Daryl doesn't look up. He's tearing at some boards on the front of the shed, bare hands prying at the weathered wood until another few pieces come loose. And when he's got himself a proper armful, he starts over towards the fire.

His steps are awkward. Clumsy, Rick realizes as he watches him go, because he can't bring himself to move from his spot. He's rooted there, slack-jawed, and he's getting this sick sort of feeling. Something's not right.  _Daryl's_ not right.

He reckons he's just about an expert on the subject.

So, he just watches. Daryl hauls the boards he's torn loose, some so long and crooked they drag on the ground as he goes. He doesn't make it more than a couple steps, though, before something seems to catch his boots, and then he's falling. Doesn't even try to stop himself, just crumples to the ground like cardboard left out in the rain, his boards falling all over the place.

A couple seconds pass, and Daryl doesn't move. But then he does, and Rick's not sure which is worse, because he's struggling to even get up onto his knees.

Rick can't stand around any longer. His legs remember how to move just as his mouth remembers how to work, and he's calling out Daryl's name and walking quickly towards him, because something's  _not right_.

Daryl doesn't even seem to hear him. That, or he means to ignore him, because he just starts gathering up his boards, and Rick's close enough now to see the sweat soaked through his shirt and the blood all over that he hopes like hell isn't Daryl's.

He passes Daryl's vest and jacket, discarded on the ground like rags, and he sees the butt of his crossbow sticking out from just under them. It's hot as hell out, and dry, and the smell's worse than anything Rick thinks he's smelled yet. This close to it, the smoke burns Rick's eyes and throat, and the smell of burning meat mixes with rotted flesh, and Rick can't be sure – he's not inclined to look too close – but he steps over a patch of what looks a hell of a lot like vomit on his way over to Daryl.

Daryl's got his feet under him again, and before Rick gets to him, he tosses the wood he's gathered onto the fire. There's something almost…ceremonial about the way he does it. He doesn't place them or anything; it's not ginger. But his movements are stiff, rigid, and he places each board one by one until he's fresh out.

He's just turning around, Rick supposes to go get more, when Rick gets to him. He's got no idea what's going on, but one look at him, at the blood on his hands, at the blank expression on his face, and he knows it's nothing good.

"Daryl, what're you doing?" he says, but Daryl doesn't answer, so Rick starts to grab him to get his attention.

His hand no sooner touches Daryl's shoulder than he jerks away like Rick burned him. "Get off me," he snaps. He doesn't look at Rick, though, just keeps going forward towards the shed. Rick can't help wondering just how long he's been doing this. The fire looks like it's been going a while. Those bodies've sure as hell been dead a while, and there's a pretty sizeable chunk missing from the wood slating on the shed. Daryl himself can hardly seem to keep on his feet.

This needs to stop.

"Daryl!" This time when he goes to grab him, he doesn't let Daryl shy away from him. He gets hold of the back of his shirt, and he pulls him back by it, turning him around. Least, that's the plan. He's not expecting Daryl to throw himself forward so hard, he pulls Rick with him, and they end up somehow both on the ground. Daryl's fighting to throw him off, and Rick's fighting to hold onto him, because… _Christ_ , doesn't know why he doesn't just let him up. It just feels like he shouldn't.

"Get off!" Daryl's hollering, and Rick doesn't think he's ever heard a sound like it. Even when Daryl's at his maddest, he's not one to yell like that so much as just to growl. But he's yelling, now, twisting and turning and trying to get his hands under him so he can push himself up. But he's tired – Rick knows he is – and Rick manages to get his arm around his neck and get a foot planted firmly in the ground.

It's not ideal, but it works. He's got him in a chokehold, not tight, but firm enough that he can't break it, especially not when he can't get any sort of footing. And Daryl's spitting and snarling and swearing up a storm, and he's grabbing at Rick's arms, but he can't manage to even get a grip on him that way. His hands are covered in blood, so scramble and hit and grab as he might, he can't get loose.

"You're alright," Rick says through his teeth, gritted from the effort of holding onto his struggling hunter. His face is right up next to Daryl's; his lips, right up next to his ear. "Easy, now. Just settle down, Daryl. You're alright."

But Daryl's not settling down. If anything, he's just fighting hard, enough that he manages to turn himself loose. He doesn't get far, though. Not before Rick gets a hold of the back of his collar and jerks him back. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't 'a jerked him back so hard, because he falls back, and Rick falls back with him.

And he doesn't get back up. He…he breaks down. He falls back onto his elbows, face screwed up in a look of such  _agony_  Rick feels his own heart breaking. Harsh sobs break from his throat, and Rick watches him curl to his side, hand up by his face like he's trying to hide from something.

It's instinct. No thought, just reflex, just this visceral  _drive_ , and he's moving around to Daryl's side, where he's turned, and he's pulling him close, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight.

Daryl goes without a fight, and that's reason enough for Rick to worry. He's never seen Daryl like this before. Never seen him so broken down, so…Christ, there aren't even words for it.

It's not until Rick looks up, looks out over Daryl's wracking shoulders, that he realizes why.

There's a body in the fire. And even though it's mostly burnt away, Rick can still make out the gleam of melting metal in the angry orange flames.

It's Merle.

"Christ." Suddenly, he understands, and he wishes like hell he didn't. That's Daryl's brother in there. That's Merle. Merle's dead, and Daryl….

Daryl's falling to pieces.

Rick finds himself holding him tighter, like he can somehow hold him together with just the strength of his arms and his own two hands. He presses his lips to Daryl's sweat-dampened hair, and he's not sure if it's him that's rocking or Daryl, but he doesn't rightly care.

"I killed him." The words come out breathless and stuttered, muffled against Rick's sleeve, but Rick hears them all the same.

As if it wasn't bad enough he was dead. Rick…he can't imagine. The closest he can come is what happened with Shane. Shane was his brother once, but at the end, he was trying to kill him.

Merle was different. Merle did what he did to save his brother, and Daryl had to put him down all the same.

"I'm sorry," Rick says. "Christ, I'm so sorry." It's not enough. Not nearly enough, but it's all he's got. "But we can't stay here, Daryl. That smoke's gonna get somebody's attention, and we can't be here when they come to look."

Daryl raises his head to look at the fire, and this pitiful noise breaks from his lips as he fists his hand in his hair. "I can't just leave him out here. Fucking walkers come and gnaw on him like the others did. It ain't right."

Rick decides not to point out there's not much left of his brother. Sure as hell nothing left the walkers would be interested in. Instead, he tells him, "You did right by him."

"Shoulda buried him." And Daryl starts to right himself, and Rick wonders if he's actually meaning to  _do it_ , but then he sinks back. That's when something occurs to Rick:

Daryl's worn out. He's already not getting enough sleep – probably gets near as little as Rick – and then Lord only knows how long he was out hiking before he found this mess. And Rick knows for a fact some of those walkers went down by Daryl's hands, not to mention… _Merle_. Then all the work it took to get that fire going and keep it stoked and burning hot enough to serve its purpose. He was already running on fumes before Rick got here, and then they had their tussle.

It's a damn wonder he hasn't crapped out already.

All the more reason to get him back to the prison and away from  _here_. "Come on," he says as gently as he can, which isn't as gently as he wants, but it'll have to do. He's got Daryl under the arms, and he's trying to haul him up. "You did the best you could. There's nothin' else for you to do here, and we need to get back to the others."

That's playing dirty; Rick knows it is. But it works, and Daryl finally relents and helps Rick get him up to his feet. Of course he puts them first. He always does.

Rick'll make sure though, soon as they make it through this – because they will make it through this; there's no other option – that he gets his own due time as priority. God only knows he stepped up for Rick in his time of need.

Until then, Rick's just got to keep him moving. "Car's around front. It ain't far." Which is good, because as good a showing as he's making, he doesn't think Daryl's got much left in the tank. He nearly upends when Rick stoops to pick up his crossbow and vest from the ground.

He hopes he can keep it together just a little while longer, though, because something tells him the day's not over yet. He reckons the Governor might be paying them a visit before the day's out.

At least he's got a plan now. If one man can come out here and raise all this hell on the away team's turf, Rick just about reckons he and his people might have a chance, especially if they're playing with home field advantage. They'll win this. They have to.

They can't lose any more.

Rick's relieved when they make it around to the car, and he's even more so when Daryl slips out of his arm and walks around to the passenger side on more or less steady feet. It's amazing, Rick thinks, what a motivator family can be.

They make it back on the road, Rick driving maybe a little slower than he did coming, but not by much. They need to get back in a hurry.

There's a heavy silence between them. Not uncomfortable, just…heavy.

To Rick's surprise, though, it's Daryl that breaks it. "Why the hell'd he do it?" he says, his voice quiet and rasped and still not altogether steady. He's getting there, though, and Rick'll take what he can get. "Goin' after the Governor like that…damn idjit should 'a known it'd get him killed."

"He did know."

Daryl looks over at him. "What?"

"He did know," Rick repeats. "He knew what he was walking into."

"Then why the hell'd he walk into it?" Daryl snaps. His voice is all the louder for the enclosed space of the car.

But Rick just stays quiet for a second, runs his hand through his hair, and when he thinks Daryl's calmed down enough to hear it, he tells him, "Merle loved you."

Daryl starts to scoff or snort or wave it off – not because he doesn't believe it, Rick thinks, just because he doesn't want to hear it right now – but Rick doesn't let him.

"I mean it, Daryl. Your brother was a lot of things, asshole chief among them—" Daryl opens his mouth to say something, but again, Rick beats him to it, "—but he loved you. He did what he did to give us a chance, and now we're gonna make the best of it, you understand?"

He looks over and sees Daryl swipe the back of his sleeve across his face, and then he nods. It's shaky as hell, but his eyes are firm and hard again. He really is the strongest man Rick knows.

Even so, he reaches over and slips his hand behind Daryl's neck, carding his fingers through the shorter hairs there. "And after," he tells him, "you and I are gonna scrounge up some old Tennessee whiskey, and we'll give that asshole brother 'a yours a proper send-off."

And as he turns his eyes back to the road, he sees a few more tears slip down Daryl's soot-streaked cheeks before he sniffs, blinks, and crams it all back in whatever well it bubbled out of.

He thinks, though, that he might also see him smile.

Rick makes a promise to himself right then. Whatever the Governor throws at them, whatever today and the next day and every day after brings, he'll get his people through it.

Merle stepped up today; no matter what Rick thinks of him, he really did. Merle loved Daryl, and he proved it.

Now, it's Rick's turn to do the same.


	12. Thicker Than Blood

He's not real sure if it's the smart thing, bringing the Woodbury folks back with them from the prison. But it feels like the right thing.  
Andrea was right, what she said…people can't make it alone anymore. And Rick reckons he'd be no better than that crazy son of a bitch Governor if he left those people sitting there, waiting for him to come back and execute them all like he did his army.

He's not one for signs, but when he gets back to the prison and Lori's not there, not waiting, not looking down at him with sadness and regret, he thinks he might just've finally put that part of him to rest.

The rest is quick enough to follow. The Woodbury folks are quick to settle in, spilling over into B-Block. He reckons he'll have to venture into C soon, see if they can't salvage any of those bunks Merle took to shredding, but they're alright for now. They've got enough beds for everyone, and last Rick checked, they were all bedded down. Some, he knows, cried themselves to sleep. Seemed there wasn't a one of them that didn't lose someone to the Governor's hand today, and they seem happier to take comfort in each other for the time being than to venture out to the group.

Michonne's another matter. Much as Rick feels Andrea's death, he knows Michonne feels it all the keener. She lost a sister today, and it seems she copes best on her own. Rick respects that and lets her be.

So with everyone else more or less settled in – Glen and Maggie are up in the tower, keeping a weather eye out in what Rick reckons is the very unlikely event the Governor decides to pay them a visit – Rick seized his own chance. Daryl had slipped off into the generator room near as soon as they got all the supplies from Woodbury unloaded into the prison, and with everything in its proper place and Beth seeing to Judith for the night, Rick grabbed a few things, among them a bottle of Dickel No. 12 he figured no-one would miss from their Woodbury haul, and went off to join him.

He found him sitting up against the cabinets, a flashlight in his mouth and a bottle of rubbing alcohol by his knee. At first he wasn't real sure what he was doing, but then he saw the tweezers in his hand, and he caught on pretty quick after that. Wasn't 'til he sat down next to him, though, that he decided to give him a hand. See, steady as Daryl's were holding a crossbow or an assault rifle, holding those tweezers, they were shaking so bad he could thread a sewing machine needle while the machine was running.

He didn't say anything when he sat down, and Daryl didn't either. He just took the tweezers, took one of Daryl's hands, and under the light of the flashlight, set to trying to pull a small lumber yard's worth of splinters out of his skin.

It took a good long while to do it, and Rick's not real sure he got them all, but after a quick wash with the rubbing alcohol – and damned if Rick didn't wince more than Daryl did – he was satisfied enough to leave it alone.

A half hour later, Rick's still sitting leaned up against the cabinets, only there's a blanket between him and the ground now. Daryl's moved around, too. Must've just got tired of sitting up, because he's lying down on the blanket, now, legs bent and head in Rick's lap. How he's managing to drink like that without choking's a mystery to Rick, but he chalks it up to another of Daryl's oddball little talents.

Rick takes the bottle when Daryl passes it to him, and raises it to his lips. Between them, they've emptied a quarter of the bottle. Only Rick knows he's only had a couple 'a mouthfuls, so really, it's Daryl that's done most of the emptying. Rick thinks his eyes might be getting a little glassy, but he's not sure how much of it's him and how much of it's the way the moonlight streaming in from the window's hitting his eyes, making them shine.

"I want my brother back."

Daryl's voice is so quiet, it doesn't startle Rick no matter how much he wasn't expecting to hear it. There hasn't been anything in the way of conversation between them the whole time they've been down here, and of all the ways Rick's imagined kicking off this long-overdue talk, this isn't one of them. He reckons beggars can't be choosers, but it's just…it sounds so  _raw_. And when Rick glances down, he realizes it's not just the moon making his eyes shine.

He sighs, rubs his face, and takes another drink. There's not a whole hell of a lot else he  _can_  do. Nothing he can say's gonna make this better. Nothing he can say's gonna give Daryl what he wants.

He does pass over the bottle, though, and watches as Daryl takes a long swig of whisky. If he feels the burn of the liquor, he doesn't show it, just stares up at the ceiling with half-lidded, red-rimmed eyes. "Said I needed t' grow up. Said I was a sheep for followin' you."

"You agree with him?" Rick doesn't. Truth be told, he thinks Daryl was made to grow up sooner than he should've, and there's a world of difference between being a sheep and being loyal. But this ain't about what he thinks.

Daryl purses his lips. "Maybe," he says. "Don't much matter, anyhow. 's what he thought." There's something awfully guilty about the way he says it, too.

 _That,_  Rick does have something to say to. "That ain't what your brother thought." He knows he's got no business saying it, but it needs saying, and the man it should be coming from's no longer around. "Might be what he said, but it's not what he thought. You know that." He's just too caught up in all the shit to let it sink in.

"Maybe," Daryl repeats, and that seems to be far as he's ready to go.

Rick'll take it for the time being. This isn't the sort of thing that happens in a day. Grieving takes time, even for someone strong as Daryl. Maybe even especially for him, because for all he keeps it in, he doesn't do anything in halves, and Rick's not sure he's ever met a man that cares as much about people as Daryl does.

He's just sorry it keeps coming back to bite him in the ass.

Truth be told, he knows the feeling.

"Since we're sharing..." Rick starts, only he trails off, partly because he's not real sure where to start and partly because he's not real sure he should be saying anything at all. But then Daryl bumps the bottle against his knee and holds it up to him, and Rick doesn't know when the whisky became their designated talking stick, but he takes it gratefully and downs a mouthful before he continues. "Carl blames me for Lori dying. Says if I'd killed Andrew when I had the chance…." He trails off again, but this time, it's just because he can't bring himself to say the rest.

 _Lori'd still be alive_.

_Carl wouldn't 'a had to shoot his own mother._

And then there's Merle.

"What about him?"

Rick didn't mean to say it out loud, but he realizes he must've. Daryl's trying real hard to sound casual, but Rick can feel him tense up, and it only makes the knot in Rick's gut tighten and the lump in his throat grow. He tries washing it down with the whisky, but it doesn't help much.

"Carl—" he has to stop and clear his throat, then tries again. "Carl seems to think if I'd 'a taken out the Governor when I had him at the Feed and Seed, your brother'd still be alive."

Daryl's eyes shift over from the ceiling to Rick's face, but Rick can't bring himself to meet them. The way Daryl's shirt's half open under his hand's a much easier sight to take, and he can feel Daryl's chest rise with a breath before he asks, "What about you? You agree with  _him_?" There he goes again, turning Rick's words right back around on him.

Rick sighs. "If I'd killed the Governor, your brother would've had no reason to do what he done."

"That a yes or a no?"

Frowning, Rick hesitates, but then, "Yes," he admits.

He's not expecting to feel Daryl chuckle. It's a short one, more of a snort, but there's the slightest turn of his lips that's real telling. "Then you don't know my brother one damn bit," Daryl says. "'Cause what he done was his idea. Had nothin' to do with you."

Only…that's not true. "I went to talk to him, after we got back from meetin' with the Governor."

"Tellin' him about Michonne?"

But Rick shakes his head. "It wasn't about that."

Now he's got Daryl's attention. He's pushing himself up on his elbows, and when Rick forces himself to meet his eyes, they're sharp as tacks. "What was it about, then?"

"You," Rick says bluntly. No sense dancing around it.

Daryl actually sits up, then, and somehow, it feels like this whole thing's suddenly taken a southerly turn. "The hell were you talkin' about me for?" There's an accusatory edge to it, but underneath the furrowed brows and the scowl, he just sounds…confused. Maybe a little worried, even.

"There were a few things he needed to understand." And Rick knows that answer's vague as all get out, but he's hardly about to tell him he was going to defend his honor. He's already fixing to be pissed enough. "But that ain't the point I'm tryin' to make."

"You wanna get to it, then?"

"I'm tryin' to, if you'd let me," Rick says, and mercifully, Daryl pipes down. Which Rick realizes is actually a mixed blessing, because he reckons now he's actually got to tell him. He sighs. "Your brother loves you, Daryl. I know 'cause he told me."

Frustration gives way to surprise on Daryl's face, but the confusion holds. "He told you?" And Christ, a man shouldn't look so surprised hearing his brother told somebody he loves him. The Dixons aren't the most expressive bunch, but still….

"Yeah, he told me," Rick says, and then steels himself, because this part's the kicker. "And I told him to prove it."

He doesn't say more than that. Doesn't tell Daryl that there's this sick sort of feeling in his gut that Merle died because 'a something  _Rick_  told him to do.

He doesn't have to.

Daryl sort of shuts down. His whole face goes blank, and Rick can practically hear him thinking…processing. Trying to make sense of what Rick's just told him. And Rick suddenly can't help remembering the look on his face that very first day they met, the day he told him he locked his brother on that roof. The day he told him he left his brother for dead.

Except this time, he can't offer anything. Can't tell him he'll come with him to help find him, can't offer the hope that somewhere out there, his brother's still alive.

And as Daryl's face hardens and his jaw sets, Rick can feel things falling apart.

"No."

Rick blinks. "Come again?" That ain't quite the seething fury he was expecting.

"I said 'no,' Rick. Can't you hear?" Daryl's voice is rough, harsh, and he scrubs his hand over his face hard enough his cheeks are red when he drops his hands. "I told you: what Merle done was his idea. Had nothin' to do with you. Nothin' to do with provin' nothin' to nobody. He gave us a chance, and we made good on it." And then he nods, once, and takes the bottle out of Rick's hand. "So stop sulking and have a damn drink with me."

And well, there's not a whole hell of a lot Rick can say to that. He waits 'til Daryl's taken a good swig and takes it back off his hands. "To Merle," he says.

While he raises the bottle to his lips, Daryl turns back around and lays back down with all the pomp and circumstance of a bored hunting dog, his head going right back onto Rick's leg like it never left. Rick knows that's the end of it, and he feels himself smiling just a little bit around the lip of his bottle before he hands it back to Daryl. It's nearly half empty, and Rick can feel the pleasant warmth building in his gut that goes nice with the pleasant buzz tingling in the back of his head.

Daryl smiles, too, small and bittersweet, and raises the bottle in the air in a half-assed sort of one-man toast. "To chances."

This time, after Daryl takes a pull from the bottle, Rick's waiting to chase the whisky with a kiss. He leans down, capturing Daryl's lips, and Daryl seems more than happy to oblige him. It's chaste, unhurried,  _relaxed_ , but it still ignites a warmth in Rick's chest that even the whisky can't match, and when they part, he's smiling.

Daryl is, too, even as he seals his kiss-reddened lips around the mouth of the bottle again. He's gonna regret it in the morning, Rick knows, but he doesn't have the heart to cut him off. This is Daryl's goodbye to his brother. This is his memorial.

But even as he mourns what he's lost, and even as Rick does the same, it doesn't feel…sad. There's a heart beating under Rick's hand, and it's steady and it's strong, and even after everything they've lost, it isn't  _broken_. He can feel his own beat with it, feel the warmth of skin under his hand, feel the swell of unquestioning, unyielding  _love_  in his chest for this man that has never failed to stand by him.

The world is a dark place. Today was a dark day. People they love died, and so much blood was spilt.

And yet…they're still here. He and Daryl, they're still together, and somehow, that makes it worth fighting on, that makes it worth  _living_. Because some things...some things are thicker than blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Hope you enjoyed the story, hope the ending didn't suck too bad, and thank you for letting me share this with all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos make meh happy; comments make me write. :) Thanks for reading!


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